


Fic: These Elegant Crimes (R)

by tuesdaysgone



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-29
Updated: 2009-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/tuesdaysgone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard Way inherits a title and a seat in the House of Lords and decides to Save Lives Through Legislation.  He also paints portraits, collects strays, and occasionally commits felonies in his spare time.  A Victorian AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic: These Elegant Crimes (R)

**Author's Note:**

> I had fun playing with all my favorite romance novel cliches for this fic. This is not meant to be historically accurate; I did use aspects of actual Parliamentary legislation and of several Victorian-era cultural and artistic movements as inspiration for this story, but the timeline I've placed them in is deliberately hazy. Thanks to Cara, Kate, Jess, Marie, Jaime, and Stevie.

  
**Pairings and Characters:** Frank/Gerard, Frank/Greta, Frank/Gerard/Greta, members of MCR, FOB, CS, THS, Panic, and The Cab  
 **Summary:** Gerard Way inherits a title and a seat in the House of Lords and decides to Save Lives Through Legislation. He also paints portraits, collects strays, and occasionally commits felonies in his spare time. A Victorian AU.  
 **Warnings:** There is one instance of vaguely described violence/attempted sexual assault.  
 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the plot. The characters depicted by name own themselves, and I really, really meant no insult to anyone's parents.

1.

Gerard got the letter in Naples. It had been forwarded twice from previous lodgings, and was a little worse for wear, not unlike Gerard. He’d been lured away from the cold stoicism of Roman marbles by news of excavations near Mount Vesuvius, and further sidetracked himself by sketching the coastal villages and ancient villas along the Amalfi Coast. Now he slumped against the wall in a dingy Neapolitan tavern, trying to make sense of the words scrawled across the paper in his brother Mikey’s slanting hand. _Helena’s dead. Everything’s falling apart. Please come home._ That was the extent of the message.

Gerard’s head spun, whether from shock or from the cheap red wine he was swilling, he wasn’t certain. Mikey wasn’t an effusive correspondent at the best of times, and now...he scrubbed a hand through dirty black hair in frustration. Gerard despaired at the lack of details, but the crumpled paper remained mockingly silent. He let it fall from his hand onto the scarred tabletop and reached for the wine bottle, almost overturning it and his tumbler in the process.

A tanned, tattooed hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle, covering Gerard’s. “Slow down a little, my friend,” its owner admonished. Frank Iero was an expatriate like Gerard, ex-Royal Navy, half-Italian. He’d been stationed in Italy, and stayed in the country after he’d been discharged. They’d met a few months ago, both rambling around the countryside without any itinerary or plan, and the fascination had been instantaneous, and mutual. He’d been a constant companion ever since. Gerard hadn’t had any reason to complain until now. “Just let me drink,” he grumbled, shaking off Frank’s hand.

Frank merely settled himself against Gerard’s side, prodding at the crumpled letter. “Bad news?” he asked softly, his hand gently squeezing Gerard’s thigh under the table.

Gerard let out a sigh, his head drooping onto Frank’s shoulder as his wine-scented breath seared Frank’s neck. “My grandmother is dead,” he mumbled. “I…I have to go home, right away.”

Frank threw an arm around Gerard’s shoulders, murmured, “I’m sorry.” He paused, then added softly, “You’re leaving? Soon?”

Gerard scrubbed a hand through his hair. “As soon as I can arrange passage.” He studied Frank's face, watched as Frank licked his lips, a nervous habit. Gerard ached to taste them, see if Frank’s mouth would dull the pain the wine had failed to banish, but didn’t want to risk it in public, even in this rundown tavern. “Frank,” he said hesitantly. Gerard got a flash of golden-brown eyes through Frank’s ridiculously long eyelashes, but Frank was resolutely studying his hand, curled loosely around Gerard’s abandoned wineglass. “Will you come home with me?” Gerard whispered.

Frank’s eyes flew to meet Gerard’s. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t know if you’d want…of course I will!” Despite the circumstances, he couldn’t hold back his brilliant smile, and it was enough to cause the corners of Gerard’s mouth to lift in response. Just for a moment.

*

It was easy enough to arrange passage for two from Italy to England. It was difficult for Frank to be patient about the speed at which the ship actually traveled. Gerard was miserable, refusing to come out of their cabin. His food trays came back mostly untouched and his bottles of rum came back empty. Frank walked the decks to escape the tiny, dark room and its lingering odor of fermented breath and unwashed skin. Sometimes, when he wouldn’t be in the sailors’ way, he’d climb into the riggings and just hang there, watching the waves. Sometimes, he’d curl around Gerard in the narrow bunk, pressing kisses into his dirty hair. He wondered sometimes if Gerard really cared either way. But every once in a while Gerard seemed to wake up a little, biting at Frank’s lips and whispering _you’re so beautiful, so good to me, please forgive me_. And Frank whispered back helplessly _for you, always, for you, anything_. Good or bad, Gerard was just so completely…Gerard, and there was no other possible response.

When they finally reached their destination, Gerard seemed to perk up a little, just at the prospect of being off the ship. They also realized that there was one minor hurdle that hadn’t presented itself to two nameless expatriates rambling around the taverns and countryside of Italy. Gerard, despite his careless and travel-worn appearance, was Quality. Everyone they met treated him as such. Frank was…well, an ex-sailor. He looked like a sailor. He didn’t regret a single tattoo, but he had enough of them that it was simply impossible to hide them all. Simply impossible to pass him off as anything other than what he was.

Gerard looked pained at the realization. He had, in fact, started railing at the unfairness of it all, which Frank bore in understanding silence for a while. When Gerard paused to draw breath, though, Frank jumped in. “Gerard, I’m not leaving you, but I’m not putting you in an unpleasant situation either. Tell everyone I’m your valet or your coachman. I can be that, for you. We’ll still know the truth.”

Gerard sighed. “I hate that you’re right.”

The coach ride to the City was uneventful. Gerard hired a carriage, but insisted on sitting up top with Frank. Frank rolled his eyes but refrained from commenting, until they reached the City proper. Then he insisted Gerard sit inside the carriage. He followed Gerard’s directions to the Way family mansion, and was somehow unsurprised at his first view of the imposing Gothic-revival structure. It just looked like someplace Gerard would live. He let Gerard down at the front door, pulling the carriage around back to unload their luggage. He’d have a groom return it to the livery stable later; he had a feeling he’d need to stick around this house for a while.

A footman materialized by the servants’ entrance and helped Frank carry the trunks inside; there wasn’t much luggage. Gerard had arranged for the big crates full of his paintings and supplies to be delivered by a courier. A dour looking housekeeper directed Frank to Gerard’s quarters upstairs. He looked around curiously at his surroundings as he climbed the servants’ stairs. What he could see of the house indicated wealth, but also a certain amount of neglect. Gerard had told him his grandmother had been in failing health for some time; that was probably the cause.

Upstairs in Gerard’s room, the air of neglect was even more obvious. The room smelled musty and cobwebs graced the corners. Frank also got his first look at the furnishings of the monstrosity of a house, and they were nearly as bizarre as the house itself. Heavily carved motifs of thorny roses and pine garlands decorated the large, old fashioned bed, and the windows were covered by thick velvet hangings, also dusty. The footman had accompanied him with an armful of luggage; when Frank commented on the condition of the room, he merely mumbled something about Gerard not being expected.

As Frank stood in the center of the room, surveying things with hands on his hips, the housekeeper appeared in the doorway. She bustled past Frank, crossing to the windows and shaking out the draperies, pulling them back to let in some light. She showed Frank the attached dressing room, with a garret under the eaves for the valet to sleep, and then bustled back out, mumbling something about sending chambermaids up to dust and change the linens.

Frank collapsed on the edge of the bed, dropping his head into his hands. He was getting a bad feeling about things. He didn’t have to wait long to confirm that feeling, either. He was still sitting, studying the floor, when the door slammed open, framing Gerard. He looked more manic than Frank had ever seen him. “Gee?” he asked hesitantly.

Gerard was white as a sheet – more than usual – his eyes suspiciously bright. “Grab your things, we’re leaving,” he bit out. He grabbed a trunk himself and manhandled it out the door. Frank followed silently. He heard the surprised exclamation when Gerard reached the bottom of the staircase, watched as another footman hastily stepped out of Gerard’s way. The butler swung the front door wide and Frank saw their hired carriage pulling up to the curb. Gerard was frozen in the doorway, eyes locked on a spot across the front hall. Frank followed his gaze to the figure of an older man – Gerard’s father? – face red with ire, staring back at Gerard, his glare encompassing Frank as well. Frank gritted his teeth, fighting a sudden urge to punch something. Someone. Anyone who’d made Gerard look like that.

“You’ll regret this,” presumably-Lord Way snapped at his oldest son.

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Gerard sneered. “But I hope you do.” And he stormed out the open door, Frank trailing helplessly in his wake.

Gerard actually went and sat inside the carriage. Frank suspected it was purely out of a desire to have a door to slam. He gathered the reins and set the horses in motion, waiting until they were out of sight of the house to stop, lean down, and ask Gerard, “Where exactly am I going?”

“Do you know how to get to the Snake’s Head?” Gerard replied. Of course Frank knew where the Snake’s Head was. He hadn’t been in Italy that long; everyone in Town knew where the Snake’s Head was. He’d never been inside the notorious gambling hell, but its garish marble and gilt façade was hard to miss. Gerard continued, “There’s a boardinghouse next door. Asher’s. We’ll go there.”

Frank nodded his assent and got them moving again. It was now the middle of the afternoon and traffic was heavy. Frank hummed under his breath, watching the other travelers on the road, steering through the crowded streets, and wondering what in the world was going on. At length he pulled the carriage to a stop in front of an unassuming brick building, shadowed by the gilt monstrosity next door. He jumped to the ground and reached for the door handle just as Gerard swung it open. They locked eyes for a moment; Frank knew his asked questions. Gerard’s promised answers, and begged patience. It mystified Frank that he could know someone well enough in a few short months to converse without words, and still realize that he knew so little about where he came from.

As they stood on the curb, three young boys emerged noiselessly from the alley between the buildings and arranged themselves in front of Gerard and Frank. “Yes?” Frank asked mildly.

“Are ya Mr. Way?” one of them – the tiniest and least grubby of the three – asked.

“He is. What do you want?” Frank answered shortly.

“Mr. Saporta said I was to take care of Mr. Way’s horses,” answered the first one.

“Mr. Saporta said we was to carry Mr. Way’s luggage,” added the second, nodding towards the tallest, silent third one.

To Frank’s surprise, Gerard chuckled gently. “Thanks, boys. What’re your names?”

“Alex,” answered the tiny one.

“All of you?” asked Gerard, and three heads nodded affirmatively. Three small hands shot out to accept the silver coins Gerard fished from his pocket, and the Alexes busied themselves about their various tasks.

 _Mr. Saporta?_ Frank mouthed at Gerard. Saporta owned the Snake’s Head. Everyone knew Saporta the way everyone knew his gambling hell – by sight, and with a horrified fascination for his sartorial choices. He was one of the richest men in Town, with one of the biggest payrolls – in his formal and less than formal business dealings.

 _Long story_ , Gerard answered. He started up the steps of the brick building. The door swung open silently, and Frank found himself inside yet another front entryway with Gerard. Then a beautiful brunette swished into the entry and rushed to Gerard, kissing him on both cheeks in the Continental fashion. “Gerard!” she cried.

“Victoria,” he answered, smiling. “It’s been too long.” He bent to kiss her hand, and she watched him with a fond look on her face.

“Do you need a place to stay?” she asked. “There’s always room here for the Way brothers.”

Gerard’s head snapped up. “Is Mikey here, then? Can you tell him…I just need to…yes, we need a room,” he finished, gesturing vaguely towards Frank, who was observing the entire tableau with confusion.

Frank saw Victoria look toward the tall, thin gentleman who’d opened the door as she repeated, “A room – Ryland will take care of it, and the boys will carry your things upstairs. Do you want to have some tea in the parlor while I go notify Mikey that you’re here?”

Gerard nodded, and Frank followed him into the small parlor to which Victoria had gestured. He pulled the door shut behind them. Gerard had stopped to watch him, and Frank stepped close, one hand curling around Gerard’s wrist. “What’s going on?” The other man noticeably deflated.

“After Helena died, Mikey…apparently he took a shine to Helena’s hired companion? And they eloped to Gretna Green after the funeral. And our father…well, he couldn’t have his second son married to a glorified maid, now could he? So he gave him an ultimatum – annulment or disownment. I guess it’s obvious what he chose.” Gerard sneered. “Lady Helena would have Lord Way’s head on a spike.”

The scene back at the house suddenly made a little more sense. Frank petted Gerard soothingly on the arm. They both looked back at the door at the sound of the doorknob turning. A pretty, dark-haired woman entered the room, followed by a taller, thinner version of Gerard, who had to be Mikey. Gerard confirmed this by rushing over and wrapping his brother in a tight embrace. Frank and the woman, presumably his bride, exchanged curious glances. When the clinging and whispering from the Way brothers showed no signs of abating, she crossed the room to the tea service, pouring herself a cup and asking Frank, “Any for you?”

“No, thank you,” he answered politely, hovering until she settled into an armchair with her cup. She gestured at its twin and he sat.

“You must be Frank,” she said, smiling a little at his surprised expression. “Gerard wrote to Mikey about you.” Frank could feel his eyebrows rising towards his hairline. This time, her smile was even wider. “Not used to the Way peculiarities yet? It takes some time. I’m Alicia, by the by.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Frank managed.

Alicia’s smile faded into something more earnest. “I’m glad he’s here,” she said, nodding towards Gerard. The brothers were finally disengaging, Gerard leading Mikey over to Frank and introducing them solemnly. Mikey looked over at Alicia and opened his mouth, but she waved at him dismissively, saying, “We’ve already introduced ourselves. Hello, Gerard.” Gerard surprised Frank, and Alicia too from the look of it, by sweeping her up in an embrace. He murmured something inaudible against her ear, and her eyes glistened suspiciously as she sat back down.

Gerard and Mikey sat too, on the nearby couch. Frank found himself on the receiving end of Mikey’s stare; it was expressionless enough to make Frank want to fidget. Finally Mikey said, “So, you went to the house, I suppose?” He was still looking at Frank, and Frank opened his mouth to answer, but Gerard jumped in.

“We went there. Weren’t there long, of course. And I’m not planning on returning anytime soon.”

“But you’re the heir, Gee. The only heir, now,” Mikey pointed out. His tone was matter-of-fact, but Gerard blanched.

“As if I care,” he choked out. “He had to have known I’d take your side.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Mikey mumbled. He didn’t elaborate. No one else said anything, either, and the silence grew till Frank was fidgeting in earnest. He asked Gerard about the helpful urchins outside, just to change the subject. It was enough of a distraction; he was rather surprised to learn that the infamous Gabriel Saporta was an old friend of both Gerard and Mikey, though rather closer to Mikey. In fact, since he’d been tossed out of the family home, he and Alicia had been living at Asher’s free of charge, while Mikey did some work for Saporta. Gerard looked mildly unhappy at that, but Mikey assured his brother that all he was doing was soliciting musicians to perform at the Snake’s Head and Saporta's other clubs. “Nothing illegal, Gee.” And Mikey rolled his eyes.

Gerard ignored him with all the aplomb of an older brother. “Mikey’s a music expert,” he told Frank proudly.

Frank nodded, and the subject quickly changed again, as a rap on the door heralded the return of Victoria’s – butler? – Ryland, who informed Gerard that a room had been prepared “for you and your companion." And just like that, Gerard and Frank were residents of Asher's.

*

Gerard's days were filled, to a certain extent, with the kind of amusements he generally preferred. Once his boxes arrived from Italy, he was able to read, and to paint when he had the notion. He talked Alicia into sitting for him. Frank was usually hanging around their room when he wasn't exploring the Snake's Head, Saporta's stables, and the surrounding area. Sometimes he came home with suspiciously damaged clothes, or bruises, or bloody knuckles, and Gerard suspected Saporta would have Frank working for him full-time soon. He knew Frank got restless with lack of activity, but he wasn't sure he completely approved of whatever Saporta had him doing. So he started painting Frank, too. And the days passed in that manner for quite some time, until an innocuous missive was delivered by courier from the firm of Wilson and Pelissier. Gerard stared at it for a moment, mildly confused. They were the Way family solicitors, and Gerard had just spoken with them a week ago about the transfer of his quarterly allowance. He couldn't imagine what they needed so soon. Cracking the seal, he unfolded the sheet of paper carelessly and scanned the text. He could feel himself freeze; the paper crackled as his hand clenched convulsively. He heard Frank's quiet, "Gerard?" from across the room, and then his quick footsteps, before he felt the other man's hand settle tentatively onto his arm.

"Mikey," he said. "Go get him?" Frank nodded and hurried next door, returning in a few seconds with a disheveled and worried looking Mikey in tow. Gerard focused his eyes on his brother, who crossed the room and plucked the letter from Gerard's fist, smoothing the creases out so he could read it. Gerard could tell when Mikey had finished the brief missive, because his brother slowly sank into a crouch at Gerard's feet, leaning against him tiredly.

"Damn," Mikey said, voice entirely without inflection.

"Damn him," Gerard echoed listlessly. His eyelids felt like lead. He let them slip closed and focused on the slightly wheezy sound of Mikey's breath, on the warmth of Frank's hand on his shoulder. He turned slightly and looked up at Frank, who was still standing and whose raised eyebrows were, for Frank, a sign of mild alarm. "Our father," Gerard told him. "He's..."

"Dead," Mikey finished flatly, when Gerard hesitated. Frank slowly settled onto the floor next to Mikey, leaning into him. Mikey stiffened for a moment but then leaned back against both of them. Frank's forehead came to rest against Gerard's leg. His hair was soft under Gerard's palm. He didn't say anything, though, which was a blessing. Gerard tried for a moment to feel sad, but he had nothing left for the man who had fathered them; nothing but residual regret that he'd never even tried to accept his sons for who they were. It had been a long time since Gerard had even wanted his approval, but the sting of Mikey's dismissal still hadn't faded. Now it never would.

"The lawyers want to see me tomorrow morning," he mumbled. "I'm Lord Way now."

"There's a scary thought," Mikey said dryly, and Gerard sighed.

"Truer words," he admitted.

Gerard couldn't sleep that night. Frank had put up with his restless shifting for at least an hour before wrapping around him like a sleepy monkey, grumbling under his breath. After that, Gerard lay still, listening to Frank's even breaths and staring at the dark ceiling. When he finally drifted off, his dreams were an insidious blend of real and unreal; the cracks in the ceiling, the folds of the bedclothes, the inked lines on Frank's skin all roiled and writhed with a sinister, living energy. He woke when Frank shook his shoulder gently, shooting out a defensive fist which Frank caught in his palm.

"It's okay," Frank murmured. "It's only me." Gerard's eyes dropped to his forearm. The tattoos were sharp-lined and stationary.

Once Gerard had dressed and eaten, he and Frank set out for the law office. They did so in style; Saporta had given standing orders to his head groom, Nate, to make one of his fleet of carriages available to the Ways "whenever the Cobra calls." Whatever that meant. Saporta had spent most of his childhood in India, and he had a plethora of wild stories, most of which Gerard was reluctant to believe.

So, yes, Gabe Saporta was a strange man, but he was also a generous one. His stable was topnotch. Nate, who also seemed to board at Asher's, had struck up some sort of camaraderie with Frank. He tipped them a wink and handed over the reins to a fine pair of matched blacks, pulling one of the Snake's Head's less ostentatious carriages. Frank jumped up onto the driver's seat and Gerard settled inside with a sigh. Frank had taken on the public role of Gerard's servant with ease, and more enthusiasm than Gerard was fully comfortable with. "You need looking after," Frank repeated easily whenever Gerard brought it up.

When they arrived at the law offices of Wilson and Pelissier, Gerard disembarked, hopping up onto the step to speak to Frank. "Hopefully this won't take too long," he said dismissively. He reached out under the cover of the bench seat to touch Frank's hand, and felt Frank's fingers tighten around his in response.

When he exited the same door an hour later, he wasn't feeling nearly so dismissive. He stopped by the carriage, and Frank looked down at him curiously. "Can...I need to walk. Will you walk with me?" Frank whistled for a groom and handed the reins over to the young boy who came running from the queue by the offices. Then he jumped down easily and walked with Gerard into the small park next door. Gerard wrenched at his cravat, letting it hang loosely from his neck. He looked into Frank's eyes and said haltingly, "That did not go quite as I expected."

"What happened?"

"I inherited, all right. The title, the house, the accounts, some other holdings. But he entailed it, with a condition." Gerard raked a hand roughly through his hair. "If I don't marry within a year, the estate reverts back to the next heir in line."

"Marry?" Frank repeated, hesitantly. Gerard snorted.

"Yes, the bastard. He knew...I'll never marry. Yet he's trying to control me, still! Or even better, taunt me."

"Who's next in line?"

"Some horrible distant cousin. I didn't know him well, but Lady Helena hated him. That bastard is probably laughing at me from his spot in Hell right now." Gerard paced. "I guess there's a silver lining...we can move back to Lady Helena's house, now. At least for a year, till that slimy lawyer Pelissier and his slimy son come to evict us."

"As soon as you want," Frank said gently.

"Let's go tell Mikey."

Mikey and Alicia reacted much in the same way as Frank; shocked, sad, but resigned. And they did move back to the Way mansion, all four of them, with fond farewells and sincere thanks to the lovely Victoria and her staff. The first thing Gerard did was fire most of the servants; the servants from his grandmother's tenure had long since been dismissed, and he couldn't stand the sight of anyone who had worked for his father. The sole exception was the chef, Bob. He was a relatively new hire from just before Lady Helena's death, who the former Lord Way had inexplicably kept on; he was large, blond, and grumpy, but a genius with food. Alicia spoke up in his defense immediately, and Gerard relented in his otherwise comprehensive swath of removing every trace of the previous Lord Way. No one tried to talk him into hiring more servants; there were only four of them, after all, and Alicia and Frank were used to taking care of the practicalities the Way brothers would have missed. Not to mention that one brother living with another man, and another married to a former domestic, was not the sort of household where one typically admitted curious strangers.

Gerard did follow his brother's advice on one matter and hired his own lawyer. Ray Toro was an old friend from their school days who had gone off and gotten his law degree while Gerard was mucking about on the Continent. He was invited over for dinner one night, introduced to Frank and Alicia, and filled in on the current will, and he agreed to begin working on the problem of attempting to discredit the document or find some sort of legal loophole. He didn't sound extremely confident, but he did seem determined.

  
Ray was always willing to listen, and to advise Gerard as he took over the reins of the estate. One point that Ray was very firm on was the necessity of Gerard taking up his Parliament seat. Gerard fought him at first, balking at the thought of spending so much time surrounded by ancient blowhards of his father's ilk. But when he did start attending sessions, he was immediately caught by the sense of capturing people's imagination through words instead of pictures. And Parliament wasn't all gouty old men, either; there were real agents of change in the two houses as well, passionate reformers who wanted to save lives with radical new legislation to improve quality of life for the common citizen. At first, Gerard merely listened, trying to understand the different parties' viewpoints and why they said what they did. Then, realizing that he'd never be more than a small voice unless he was better known, he began to step cautiously into the social circles that he'd fled as a young man. It was terrifying, and boring, and frustrating all at the same time.

Ray found him sitting at the desk in the library late one evening, clutching his head and staring fixedly at the decanter of whiskey across the room. Gerard hadn't had a drink since the nightmarish, grief-clouded voyage from Italy, but sometimes it called to him. "Gerard?" he asked tentatively.

Gerard startled. "Why're you still here, Ray? It's so late."

Ray colored a little. "I was playing a concerto with Mikey." Mikey and Ray were both accomplished musicians, and Ray had apparently kept up his study of music along with his law studies. "What are you doing in here, Gee? It is pretty late. Frank went to bed ages ago." That was as close as Ray ever really came to directly mentioning their relationship; Gerard knew he was nervous, as a lawyer, about its legality.

"It's these Parliamentary rulings. I just can't keep them straight, and we vote in two weeks."

Ray shook his head. "Gerard, you need a secretary." Gerard had been refusing help for at least a month, since Ray first brought it up, but now he sighed.

"I think you're right."

"Look, Gerard, I know someone. He used to work with a colleague of mine, and I think he'd be helpful to you. Plus, he worked for Bert and Quinn for years, and I trust his...discretion."

Gerard laughed. "Well, invite this paragon over. We'll test him out for a few weeks and see how it goes."

The paragon was duly invited, and introduced as Brian Schechter. And he did prove to be a paragon in truth; he was indeed discreet, never batting an eye at eating dinner at a table with Frank, Ray, Alicia, Mikey, and Gerard all talking over one another, and he ruthlessly organized Gerard's haphazard research. Once he started attending Parliamentary sessions with Gerard, his notes proved to be a thing of beauty as well. And he seemed to know everything about absolutely everyone; once he took over the management of Gerard's social invitations, to Alicia's everlasting gratitude, Gerard began to wonder how he'd managed to get along without Brian for the first thirty years of his life.

*

About the time Brian entered their lives, Frank noticed that Gerard started coming home from Parliamentary sessions with stars in his eyes. He described for them, with occasional interjections from Brian, a new reform movement that was sweeping the floor of the Commons. A cabal of young politicians, cits mostly but supported by a few Lords as well, was proposing radical legislation to reform the way districts were formed and the way the citizens voted, and improving the rights and working conditions of the growing middle class. Frank thought it all sounded very sensible, and also saw why the members, especially the titled ones, were sure to resist it heartily. Gerard was an anomaly; a young Lord with progressive ideas and no insistence on preserving his own lifestyle at anyone else's expense. He said these politicians wouldn't be easily convinced; the infighting was intense, especially at this early stage, and they'd be wary of letting a stranger in on their meetings.

Gerard and Brian decided that the best way to proceed was to go on the attack; that Gerard would have to increase his social efforts in order to make an impression on the right people. Mostly, Brian decided this. Gerard complained about it, sometimes well past the point where he had left the house, when Frank was driving him to the night's event. And when he was at home, he withdrew; closeting himself in his studio for hours, or pulling Frank into his bedroom and wrapping around him in the big carved bed. He talked to Frank, sometimes, about the crowds of people, their shallow views, the loud rooms and bright lights, leaving him feeling blind and overexposed. Gerard could be so charming that it was hard to believe he was so antisocial. Frank sat outside with the Way carriage many nights and searched the lighted windows of the house, wondering what Gerard was doing, how he was feeling. Nights like that, Frank was so angry at the world - that he was left outside in the rain, while Gerard was lost inside. That he was powerless to help.

One such night, he was hunched over against the misting rain when he saw something entirely unbelievable; Gerard, stumbling towards him at a not-quite-panicked trot, arms full of some sort of indistinct bundle. Frank immediately looked around. None of the other coachmen were in evidence, having retreated inside the stable due to the weather. Frank was only where he was because, quite frankly, he had been unwilling to inflict his black mood upon anyone else. Frank sprang from the carriage and ran to Gerard. "What's going on?" he hissed, reaching to help Gerard with his burden before realizing that it was a person. He recoiled in surprise, and Gerard clutched the figure tighter so as not to drop it. Swearing, Frank reached out to help him, and between the two of them they eased the person - girl, Frank could see as the blanket wrapping the body slipped - into the carriage. "Is she...dead?"

Gerard frowned. "Of course not! But she's hurt, I have to get her out of here. Please, Frank, I'll explain when we get home, just _drive_ , before someone comes looking for me."

"Is there a reason someone would come looking for you?"

"Not if we get out of here before anyone sees us with her." He jumped in the carriage with the girl, and Frank climbed to his seat, rousing the horses and pulling the carriage out of line with a few tight turns. He swore under his breath the whole way home.

When Frank and Gerard burst through the servant's entrance a short while later, carrying a girl's body between them, three sets of eyes regarded them with shock. Chef Bob immediately got up and retreated to his quarters, mumbling something about mending socks. Bob tried to stay out of the Way shenanigans whenever possible. Mikey stayed where he was and stared. Alicia got up, hand flying to her throat at the sight of a pale, unconscious form wrapped in a blanket. "That's going to need an explanation," she blurted.

"We need a doctor, first. A trustworthy one!" Gerard said tightly. Mikey muttered something under his breath and got up, slinging an overcoat around his shoulders.

"I'll go get Doctor Hurley," he said, surprisingly. By the time the doctor arrived, some twenty minutes later, Gerard's mystery girl was ensconced in a bed upstairs with Alicia testing her pulse nervously and Frank leaning against the door jamb as Gerard paced. The doctor was an Irish bantam, but his eyes glinted with good humor behind his glasses and he shooed Gerard and Frank out of the room before looking the patient over with Alicia's assistance. Entirely too many tense moments later, the door opened and he beckoned them back inside.

"She's young and in fairly good health, though mildly malnourished. There are ribs broken; that's certain to be painful but not likely to be dangerous as long as she is kept abed till the sharp edges begin to knit. Nothing else to do for them except keep them bound. I've cleaned the head wound. It's shallow, but the lack of consciousness is worrisome. There's really nothing we can do at this point except see if she comes out of it with her wits unscathed. If she does, I have every confidence she'll make a full recovery fairly quickly. Let's be optimistic. I'll check back in with her in the morning; please notify me if she takes a turn for the worse."

"Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate this," Gerard said sincerely.

"Anything for friends and their...houseguests," Hurley responded. Gerard shot a look at Alicia, who returned it evenly. Gerard walked Hurley to the door, then turned to where Frank, Alicia and Mikey were all waiting in the entryway with what Frank imagined were identical looks of avid curiosity and no small amount of trepidation.

Gerard looked from one face to the next, finally meeting Frank's eyes. "It was a horrible party," he said simply. "I had to get away for a while, so I stole out of the ballroom and tried to find a quiet room. I did, but someone else had the same idea. One of the 'gentlemen'" - Gerard infused the word with scorn - "of the household had cornered a maid." Frank looked to the bed, and back at Gerard, and he nodded. "He didn't see me in the room. She said something uncomplimentary, and he...slapped her. Then he went after her with a fist. She tried to claw him, and he shoved her away, and...that's when she hit her head. I don't know what he would have done to her next, but he didn't get the chance. I hit him over the head with a vase and felled him. And I knew I couldn't leave her there, so...."

Frank nodded, but when he looked at Mikey he saw Gerard's brother frowning. "I know you did what you thought was right, Gee. But...hell, what if someone had seen you? What if someone _did_ see you? Your political career...."

"I probably saved her life," Gerard retorted, frowning. "I at least saved her from being mistreated."

Alicia laid her hand on her husband's arm when he opened his mouth again. "You did a good thing, Gerard. All Mikey's saying is that you need to be careful."

Gerard looked at Frank, who smiled a little and said, "Well, what's done is done. But next time you get the urge to assault and kidnap, at least take me with you."

Frank saw Alicia roll her eyes. "I'm going to check on our houseguest."

"What exactly did you tell Dr. Hurley, sweetheart?" Mikey asked.

"That she was a friend of the family who'd had a riding accident."

Frank frowned. "At this hour of the night?"

"Well, whether or not he believed it, he's a friend, and he won't gossip," Mikey interjected. "Come on, Alicia, I'll walk you upstairs." He looked at Frank and Gerard. "And I'm locking her door. Innocent victim or not, we don't know her, and she could come to any time."

Gerard sputtered a little, but Mikey just walked upstairs without another word. Frank studied Gerard's face for a moment, then reached for his hand. "Bedtime, Gerard." Gerard didn't resist, just allowed himself to be drawn up the stairs. Frank knew he was still full of nervous energy from the night's events; Frank was, too. They'd probably both succumb to sleep soon enough, but Frank intended to exploit what energy they did have while he could.

Frank was young, but he wasn't exactly inexperienced. He'd been in the Navy for years, and, well, you had to do what you had to do when you were out at sea for months on end. Frank had secretly thrilled, every once in a while, at the touch of salt-sweaty skin and calloused hands, and had said more than his fair share of Hail Marys over the years because of it. And he'd taken the time to tumble his fair share of barmaids when he was on shore leave, too, half smiles and pale thighs in the dark. He'd never been a slave to his appetites; at least, not until he'd met Gerard. Gerard had made him _want_ , with a bright, sick feeling in his stomach like he was high in the crow's nest with the sea swinging below. A dark, warm, spreading flood through his veins. Gerard was so pretty, strange, earnest, hypnotic. And now, as he stood in the center of the big master suite pulling impatiently at his cravat and cuffs, shedding the nobleman's skin, he became something else, something that belonged to Frank as the public Gerard never could.

Having dispensed with the majority of his own clothes, he began tugging impatiently at Frank's, mouth nipping along the line of Frank's jaw. He didn't seem sleepy anymore, and Frank obligingly undressed the rest of the way, hissing with pleasure as Gerard's warm skin brushed up against his own. He took control of Gerard's locomotion through a soft, thorough kiss, backing him the few steps it took to reach the big carved bedstead. Gerard went willingly, but fought back when his legs bumped up against the mattress; he flipped them over so that Frank was pinned against the bed. Grinning wildly, he took the time to taste a half-dozen of Frank's myriad tattoos. He lingered over the soft skin of Frank's thighs, sinking his teeth into the muscle, then soothing the marks with his tongue, before he lowered his mouth inch by relentless inch onto Frank's cock. All Frank could do was gasp, then moan. Gerard's mouth was more than doing its job as Gerard took control of Frank's hips, riding out the helpless undulation. Frank's low groan sounded so loud in the quiet room, then he stiffened and came. As he lay panting, Gerard raised his head, licking his lips, and Frank growled and grabbed him, tackled him to the bed. He paid special attention to sensitive areas as his mouth roamed over Gerard's pale skin, drifting downwards to return the favor. Even after they finished, as they lay in the quiet room wrapped up in each other, Frank felt a sense of possession, like his very name was written on Gerard's skin as so many pictures were writ large on his own. He laid a hand across Gerard's breastbone and closed his eyes, succumbing to sleep.

2.

The first thing that intruded upon Greta Salpeter's consciousness when she awoke was pain; a dull, teeth-clenching throb that escalated to a screaming pitch as soon as she tried to move. She made a choked noise and dropped her head back against the pillow upon which it had been resting. A quiet, feminine voice said, "Shh. Don't try to move. Are you thirsty?" Greta nodded with the minimum necessary movement, and felt a cup press gently against her bottom lip a moment later, tipping a few drops onto her cracked lips. She hissed as it hit a raw patch of split skin, but took more when the cup was tipped again. Warily, she opened her eyes.

A dark-haired girl, simply dressed and not much older than herself, sat on the edge of the bed next to her. The girl, the bed, the room - all were unfamiliar, and Greta gasped out, "Where am I?", voice breaking as the pain bloomed in her ribs again. The girl pressed a surprisingly strong hand against her breastbone and said, "Don't move, please. You'll only make it worse. You're...safe, all right? I promise."

"What happened?" Greta whispered this time.

The other girl paused. "What do you remember?"

"The party...Lord Ashworth's son in law...he - oh, God, he hit me!" Her hand slipped to wrap around the dark-haired girl's tightly. "What else did he do? I can't remember. Who are you?"

"No, no, no...please. You're.... You've got broken ribs. That's why it hurts to move, so you really must stay still. And when you fell you also hit your head, and you've been unconscious. But...another gentleman saw it happen, and he knocked out your attacker and brought you to his home for medical care. That's where you are now."

Greta felt the blood drain from her face. "I'm not at Lord Ashworth's anymore?"

"No. The owner of this house took you away. You've been here, unconscious, since yesterday evening."

Greta's eyes slipped closed, but two tears trickled soundlessly down her cheeks. It hurt too much to sob. "Oh, no." Gritting her teeth, she tried to roll off the bed, but the other girl caught her shoulders.

"No! Please, don't move. I...I need to go call the doctor and tell him you're awake. You.... What's your name?" The last was said in a progressively kinder tone of voice.

"Greta," she said.

"Greta, I'm Alicia. I'm the housekeeper here. And I promise we are doing our best to get you well, but you have to stay in bed! Now, I'm going to go send for Doctor Hurley. Please rest." And Alicia crossed to the door, slipping out of the room. Greta heard the lock click as it closed.

The doctor did accompany Alicia the next time she entered the room. Greta had fallen back into a fitful, pain-hazed sleep and wasn't sure how long it had been since Alicia had left her. He was a small man, with kind eyes behind his spectacles. He checked Greta over, pronounced her reflexes to be in good working order, and quizzed her about her memory. "Do you remember everything up to the point of falling and hitting your head?" he inquired. Alicia, Greta could see over the doctor's shoulder, had gone strangely white. "Yes?" Greta answered hesitantly. He quizzed her on the month, and the year, and the names of her mother and father, and she answered them all, apparently to his satisfaction. Alicia seemed to rush him through that part, strangely enough. Then Hurley patted her on the shoulder. "I think you're recovering well, my dear. Those ribs will be tender for some time, so keep them wrapped. I've left Mrs. Way here some laudanum for your pain. I'll check back with you in a week or so if I haven't heard anything."

Once the doctor let himself out the door, Greta fixed Alicia with a hard stare. "What's going on here?"

Alicia bit her lip. "Well...in order to protect your privacy, and that of my...employer, we told Doctor Hurley that your injuries were the result of a riding accident." When Greta gaped, she colored and continued, "It was a complicated situation."

"How is it complicated? Because you _kidnapped_ me?" Greta struggled to sit upright again, cursing when the pain was too great and settling back down on her own accord.

"It's not really my place to explain, but please take my word that you're safe here." Greta huffed and turned her face away. After a moment, she heard Alicia turn and leave the room. Once again, the lock clicked resolutely behind her.

From that moment, Greta began plotting. She refused to take laudanum as often as Alicia offered it, not wanting to dull her wits. What she did take was discreetly spit into a purloined washcloth as often as she dared. She ate the food sparingly in case it was being dosed as well. The pain of the broken ribs subsided slowly nonetheless, as Greta was otherwise conscientious about following the doctor's orders. When she could bring herself to get out of bed, she found the dress she'd been wearing the night she was attacked hanging in the wardrobe. A purloined knife from her dinner tray joined the washcloth in its hiding place under her mattress, and finally, after several days of captivity, Greta was ready to act.

She waited until Alicia had removed her supper tray, and until the noises of the house had subsided. Then she crept out of bed, removed the cotton nightgown she'd been dressed in, and put her own dress back on over her bandages. Just that act left her practically breathless, but she took a few slow breaths and wrapped a shawl she'd been provided with around her shoulders. Then she knelt gingerly by the door and began to work on the lock with her stolen knife. It took a few minutes, but she eventually managed to trigger the locking mechanism. Greta smiled grimly and opened the door, creeping carefully out into the hallway. She found the servant's stairs and crept down slowly, holding her shoes against her chest. When she reached the bottom, she peeked out into the deserted kitchen. Her neglected stomach growled at the smell of baking bread, and she hissed in a breath and quickly jammed her shoes onto her feet. She had to get out of here!

The back courtyard was blessedly dark; Greta could see a dim light through the partially open door of the long, low stable building, but heard nothing except the occasional shifting and murmuring of the horses inside. She eased through the wooden door; as her eyes adjusted she saw a partially open door to the left that was probably the tack room. She headed in that direction, then her world shifted as she was grabbed by the scruff of her neck and pushed face-first into the cold stone wall. She let out a helpless cry as her injured ribs collided with the hard surface.

"Jesus Mary and Joseph," a man's voice said in dismay, and she felt the shawl pulled off her head as he tugged her closer to the lantern. "You're Gerard's maid. What the hell are you doing down here?"

"Escaping," Greta sighed. "And I don't know anyone named Gerard!"

The man scrubbed a hand over his face, and the motion pushed back his hat far enough that she could get a good look at him. He was young, with a small, wiry build, and covered in tattoos. "Gerard never talked to you," he grumbled to himself. "Unbelievable." He looked down at her and said, quite seriously, "You need to come back inside."

"No!" Greta cried. "I promise, I won't take any of your horses. You need to let me go, you don't even understand...why would you keep me here?"

"To let you recover from a _beating_?" the man suggested sarcastically. "Look - I've had broken ribs, I know how it feels, and I don't want to hurt you, so please don't fight me. Just...come with me." And with one hand wrapped around her upper arm, he marched her - carefully, though, for which she was grateful - back into the house, through the kitchen, and straight to what she assumed was the family parlor. There were three occupants within; two men and Alicia. The housekeeper was seated on a sofa next to the younger of the two black-haired men, and the older sat in one of a pair of armchairs nearby. He looked up at the man's stern, "Gerard!"

"What is it, Frank?" he said, taking in Greta's presence with a look of wide-eyed confusion.

So, the tattooed man was Frank. Before he could say anything, Alicia interrupted. "How did you get outside?" She stared at Greta, who narrowed her eyes.

"I picked the lock, of course." The man on the sofa frowned, but Gerard cut in.

"Wait, wait. What's your name?" He looked expectantly at Greta.

"Greta."

"Your full name?"

"Salpeter," she added hesitantly.

"Miss Salpeter," he continued, "I'm Lord Way. And I apologize; I'd really like for you to sit down, and let me explain." He actually got up and motioned to his own chair, which was nearer to the fire. Frank let go of her arm, and she walked over and sat gingerly. Gerard sat in the chair's twin, and Frank relaxed slightly, leaning on its back.

Gerard studied her earnestly. "As I said, I'm Lord Way. This is my brother Mikey and his wife, Alicia. And you've already met Frank. Now, Doctor Hurley assures me that your memory is fine, so I'm assuming you remember what happened the night of the party. Well, once you were knocked unconscious, I was afraid he would hurt you worse, so I returned the favor to your attacker. And once he was incapacitated, I took you from the house. I never intended to hold you against your will; that was...a misunderstanding." He paused. "But, why would you want to go back there?"

"I don't! I never want to see that house again. But Lord Ashworth holds my note of indenture. If he's reported me to the authorities as a runaway, I'll be jailed if I'm caught."

Gerard looked distraught. Frank laid a hand on his shoulder. "I didn't know," Gerard said quietly. "Well, you're our guest here until you recover, and I promise we'll help you find somewhere to go. Wherever you want."

"I think you really should go upstairs and lie down now," Alicia put in softly. Greta's vision was swimming a little around the edges. She nodded, tightly, and the other woman came to help her up. When they reached her room, Alicia helped her change and get back into bed.

"You told me he was your employer," Greta said, watching Alicia straighten the few items in the wardrobe. "You're married to his brother."

"Yes, I am married to his brother, and I act as his housekeeper. I didn't lie to you. I told you, I didn't feel it was my place to try to explain what Gerard did. If you feel we've somehow mistreated you, that's between you and him." Greta had never heard the other woman sound so fierce.

"You locked me in," she retorted.

"Well, we didn't know anything about you."

"I don't know anything about you either!" Greta cried.

Alicia glared. "Me? I was Gerard's grandmother's caretaker until she died. His brother was disowned for marrying me. Gerard treats me like his sister. He saved you from being assaulted and has offered to break the law and keep you as a guest under his roof. So keep that in mind before you start accusing us of mistreating you." And she drew herself up to her full height, stalked to the door, and walked out under Greta's speechless gaze.

The door didn't lock this time.

Greta leaned her head back against the pillows and closed her eyes wearily. She was under the roof of Lord Way, whose brother was married to their housekeeper, whose groom called him by his first name, and who hadn't batted an eye at suggesting he'd help her decamp on her debt indenture. What kind of insanity was this? Even more insane was that she was seriously considering staying here instead of taking the opportunity to flee.

She'd noticed him at the party that night; the maids were characteristically agog whenever someone new emerged on the dancefloors of the ton. Not that Lord Way had seemed to be much for the dancefloor, but he was handsome in that Byronic manner, and had garnered a good bit of attention both abovestairs and below. But he didn't seem to be the type to abduct anyone; at least not for the usual reasons. He didn't even seem particularly interested in her, so why would he take the risk? It made her head hurt. She eyed the tiny medicine bottle Alicia had left on the bedside table, but ultimately just gave in to sleep instead.

Greta's mobility improved fairly rapidly. No one in the Way household seemed at all concerned with her whereabouts; she'd been down to several meals with a combination of the other denizens present, but no one seemed to keep a regular schedule except for Frank, who tended the horses, and Bob the chef, who insisted on preparing the meals at reasonable times whether or not everyone was there to eat them. She had learned that Lord Way was an artist, and would sometimes spend hours, or days, in his studio. But what she was really interested in was the music room, which someone had mentioned in passing the other day. Wandering around the drafty old mansion, she found it, tucked away in a side wing. Greta's eyes widened at the sight; it was large, richly paneled, and filled with all manner of gorgeous musical instruments.

She crossed the room to the pianoforte and trailed her fingers along the glossy lacquer. Unlike most of the rest of the house's contents, it wasn't dusty, but polished to a high sheen. She sat at the bench and gingerly lowered her fingers to the keys, looking around nervously. _No one will mind,_ she told herself. She pressed the keys.

Some time - there was no knowing how long - later, Greta lifted her hands from the final bars of an original composition, and heard a throat clearing behind her. She jumped, resisting the urge to twist in her seat and instead pivoting her whole body awkwardly on the bench. It was Lord Way's brother in the doorway. Mr. Way - Mikey. He leaned against the door jamb and asked her, "Are you enjoying my music room?" His tone was vaguely challenging, and Greta stiffened.

"Your music room?"

He smiled. "Ah, but I'm the musician in the family, didn't you know?"

"I didn't. What do you play?"

"Everything in here. Is the piano your only instrument, Miss Salpeter?"

"No," Greta said. "I play several others, but it's my favorite."

Mr. Way stepped into the room, strolling toward the pianoforte. He stopped at various points along the way to run his fingers over the skin of a drumhead, the strings of a cello. "You can repay me for the use of my pianoforte by telling me the name of the piece you were just playing," he said lightly.

"It doesn't have one." Greta tucked her hair behind her ears nervously. "I don't name my pieces."

He looked at her sharply. "You wrote it?" She nodded. He reached the piano and leaned casually against the side, his fingers tapping out a rhythm against the top. "I find myself intrigued....the manners, the proper speech, any of that could merely be the product of an exacting employer or a talented mimic, but what servant girl plays Mozart from memory and writes original piano sonatas?"

Greta smiled grimly. "You were listening for quite some time, then. And also, you're fishing, Mr. Way. Why don't you just ask me about my sordid history?"

He leaned over the top of the piano. He was thin and rather unprepossessing, but his cold eyes and expressionless voice were intimidating nonetheless. "I'm the one who ordered you locked in your room. I can do it again, with a lock you can't pick. And I've tolerated your presence so far, but if you do or say anything to endanger my brother and Frank, I swear I will see you thrown in jail."

"Your brother and Frank..." Greta began, then trailed off as she realized what he was implying. _Oh._ Certain things she had noticed suddenly became clearer in her mind.

"You're not stupid, Miss Salpeter. You're living in this household, and you're privy to our private lives. They may trust you, but I don't."

Greta looked off into the distance, fingers picking out the notes of a D minor chord as she took a few deep breaths, clearing the red that had tinged the edges of her vision. She turned back to Mr. Way, her voice hard. "I never asked you to trust me. I'm honored that your brother does. But if nothing else will satisfy you, fine. A gesture of good faith, Mr. Way. You want my story? I will give it to you.

"My father was a cabinetmaker by trade. He was able to get employment, a number of years ago, with a piano-making company that had just opened its doors in Town. It was my father who taught me to play, and we lived quite comfortably. Perhaps not like your family, but bourgeois, to be sure. But my father was a drinker, and a gambler. A womanizer. To finance these things, he began embezzling from his employer, and eventually he was caught. He was thrown in jail. And I, the only relative left, was sold into bondage to help repay his debt." Greta had been staring studiously at her fingers throughout the speech, but now she looked up, looked into his eyes. "That's my story, Mr. Way. Not overly dramatic, is it? Just pathetic enough to ruin my reputation, so I'm sure it will serve your ends admirably."

A muscle worked in his jaw. He looked like he was in the middle of an internal debate. He said hesitantly, "Alicia worked for my family, you know." When Greta nodded, he continued, "She told me that she told you. I married beneath me, my father said, and I deserved what I got, which was nothing, as I was summarily disowned. That was enough to ruin _my_ reputation."

"Sins of our fathers," she replied, a little sadly. "Alicia is lovely. I know she's upset with me right now, but she is. It makes me jealous, you know, how protective you all are of each other. I've never had that."

"You have that now...Greta." He pronounced the given name hesitantly. "My brother may go about things the wrong way, but he's serious when he tells you you're our guest for as long as you want. I'm begging, really. Don't abuse it."

"I wouldn't! Mr. Way...Mikey...I wouldn't. Please believe me."

"For some reason, I do." His expression seemed to show the barest hint of a smile. "There's only one thing to do now."

Greta hesitated. "What's that?"

"How well do you know Beethoven's violin sonatas?"

She couldn't help the grin, the sheer relief that rolled through her. "Well enough to keep up with you."

As Greta continued to recuperate, she began to spend more and more time with the other denizens of the Way mansion, who seemed to accept her continued presence as a given. Even Ray and Brian had adjusted to her sudden appearance in the household with barely a word. It probably didn't hurt that she was always so eager to help; she simply wasn’t used to being idle. When she wasn’t to be found in the music room – either practicing alone or duetting with Mikey – she was usually lending a hand to Alicia or Bob in the kitchen, both of whom were transparently delighted at the presence of another person who understood the basic running of a house of this size. Sometimes she wandered out to the stable to feed tidbits to the horses, under Frank’s watchful eye. After their rocky first meeting, Frank seemed determined to charm her. The fact that he was in charge of the horses, and of Mikey and Alicia's ever-increasing menagerie of cats and ridiculous dogs, helped his case. One afternoon, Greta found herself sitting crosslegged in the haymow of the stable with Frank. She had Piglet, Alicia's squashed-faced puppy, snoring in her lap. Frank was sitting opposite her, making neat stitches in a leather harness strap that had begun to unravel. "Do you miss sailing?" Greta asked idly.

"Do I miss it..." Frank trailed off, laughed a little. "No, I really don't. I was...when I was young - even younger than you -" he said with a grimace, "I was a brawler. I ran with the Pencey boys, you ever heard of them?" Greta nodded. "Good little girls like you were told to stay far, far away from the Pencey boys, weren't you? Well, my mother worried herself sick over me. She was sure I'd get myself killed, and she was probably right. It was my mother who sent me off to join the Navy. I guess she figured it was the lesser of two evils."

"But...it can't have been all bad?"

"No. Not all bad."

"So...what did you like about it?"

Frank leaned back, laced his hands behind his head. "The adventure, I guess. The thrill of never knowing where you were headed next."

Greta frowned. "But you left."

"I was discharged."

"And then you met Lord Way?"

"After a while. You know, Greta, you really need to start calling him Gerard. His feelings will be hurt if you don't."

"I don't...understand that."

"Gerard always says that he inherited his title, he didn't earn it. He certainly doesn't want it. He tolerates it now, because of his position in Parliament. But he likes to approach people on an equal footing when he can."

"Frank...I am not on an equal footing with Lord Way."

"That's the beauty of it, Greta. He doesn't care. I'm living proof of that."

She frowned a little in concentration. "All right, then. Why Gerard, rather than the adventure?"

Frank paused, regarding her with an intent expression she couldn't quite decode. "Because, sometimes people are an adventure too."

Greta bit her lip, then nodded a tiny nod, almost to herself. "I think I'm discovering that for myself." Frank studied her for a moment more, then picked the harness strap back up and continued his careful repair. Piglet sighed in his sleep, and Greta tilted her head back against a hay bale and closed her eyes.

Occasionally, Greta would find herself transcribing Parliamentary notes for Brian in a careful hand. She saw more of Gerard's impossible handwriting than she did of the man himself; he kept odd hours and seemed loath to leave his studio for more than a few hours at a time, unless Brian went upstairs and yelled. Brian had to yell quite stridently to get him to come downstairs, clean up, and attend parties. If they were anything like the ones Greta had experienced at Lord Ashworth's, she understood his hesitance.

Lord Way - Gerard - largely remained a mysterious figure; his family obviously adored him, but he was distant, absentminded. Greta was curious about his artwork, but hadn't been able to get up the courage to sneak into his studio yet. All she had to go on were Frank's descriptions of donning stifling suits of medieval armor, and Alicia's stories about reenacting mythological tableaux. But Greta had other occupations. Most recently, she had set up an embroidery frame in a sunny corner of the library, and was busily repairing a set of elaborately embroidered tablecloths as Ray muttered over a mountain of papers spread out over a nearby library table. She hummed a jaunty tune under her breath as she outlined a weeping willow in celadon silk, but she fell silent as Alicia rushed into the room.

“What’s wrong?” Ray asked. Alicia was wild-eyed, and that was highly unusual.

“That Pelissier man is back again!” Alicia hissed. “He’s looking for something in there!” She pointed at the stack of financial papers in front of Ray. “I don’t dare send him away; Gerard’s put him off twice this week and he’s already suspicious enough. But I certainly can’t explain another lawyer being here! Lord knows what he'd do if he thought we were challenging the will.”

Pelissier the younger, Greta had come to understand, was the lawyer for the Way estate. Greta hadn't yet laid eyes on the man, but had heard the story of the conditional will a week or so before from Mikey, after Pelissier's first appearance. She stood up. “I can,” she said calmly. Both Ray and Alicia looked over, with matching furrowed brows. “I’ll make something up. Don’t worry.” Alicia pinned her with a stern look, but Greta merely repeated, “Don’t worry. Send him in.” A few moments later, Alicia ushered a tall, swarthy young man into the library. His eyes immediately went to Ray, who studiously focused on the document in front of him, avoiding eye contact. Greta stood, head high, and held out a languid hand. “Mr. Pelissier, I presume?”

His head snapped towards her. “You have the advantage of me, miss,” he answered.

“Miss Peterson,” Greta said evenly. “Lord Way’s fiancée.” Now she had Ray and Alicia’s undivided attention, as well. “I’m afraid you’ve arrived at an unfortunate time, Mr. Pelissier. My lawyer, Mr. Toro, has been working on the settlement all morning and things are rather in disarray. If we’d had more notice, perhaps…” Greta trailed off delicately, favoring him with her sweetest smile. Pelissier jumped into the breach with garbled apologies, which she halted with a gesture. “No, no, don’t distress yourself,” she said solicitously. “Perhaps you could call again tomorrow? I’m sure Lord Way would be delighted to receive you himself.” She looked over at Alicia. “Mrs. Way will show you out.”

Alicia did show him out. Ray regarded Greta with shock, perhaps a hint of amusement, but didn’t comment. When Alicia re-entered the room, she didn’t refrain from commenting. “Fiancee?” she said incredulously. "That's quite a fabrication."

“Solved the problem, didn’t it?” Greta replied equitably.

“Fairly efficiently, actually,” Ray offered. “You’re no more Gerard’s fiancée than I am your lawyer, but Pelissier can’t possibly prove it, even if he does suspect. It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

“He’ll keep himself busy searching for info on Miss Peterson, anyway,” Alicia conceded. “Since that’s not your real name.”

Greta grinned. “Precisely.” She seated herself again and selected another strand of embroidery silk. After a moment, Alicia seated herself on the other side of the frame and reached for Greta’s sewing box. Every so often, Greta met Alicia’s thoughtful gaze over the top of the tablecloth.

“You’re not exactly what I expected, when we first spoke,” the older girl mused.

Greta laughed. “Neither is anyone else in this household.” It was the first time she’d actually referred to herself as a part of the household. Alicia didn’t correct her, and Greta felt a sudden rush of warmth toward the other girl, toward them all. She’d come to feel like one of them, and she hadn’t even realized it. Greta was filled with a sudden, desperate hope that it was the same for the rest of them. It had been a long time since she’d belonged anywhere.

The house was suddenly full of sound, as Gerard, Frank, and Brian all tumbled into the library at the same time. Mikey ambled in behind them. Greta blinked blearily at the clock in the corner. She hadn’t even noticed so much time had passed. She sat quietly as the new arrivals exchanged greetings, a vague smile curving her lips. Then she heard Ray say, “Gerard, Pelissier was here again today.”

Gerard froze. “Did he see you? What did he want?”

“He wanted some papers,” Ray answered. “He definitely saw me. Greta headed him off, though.” Greta felt everyone’s eyes swing towards her, and she colored.

“She told him she was your fiancée, and Ray was her lawyer,” Alicia added.

Greta felt her face heat; she resolutely studied her embroidery, and didn’t look up. Then she heard Brian say slowly, “That’s brilliant. We can work with that.”

Gerard sputtered, “What?” and her heart sank. Had she overstepped?

Frank chimed in, “A fiancée is a sign that you’re making steps to fulfill the conditions of the will.” There was a funny note in his voice. Greta glanced his way from under her eyelashes, but he refused to meet anyone's eyes.

“A second set of eyes and ears at these parties you’ve been going to would be helpful.” Brian again. He sounded delighted.

“Yes, but lest we forget, Greta’s not exactly under this roof legally.” Mikey’s usual expressionless tone.

Ray emitted a high-pitched strangled noise, and Greta finally looked up, concerned. “That is information I really don’t need to know!” he whined, clapping his hands over his ears.

"Well, if she's staying for any length of time, it's only logical that we need to make her background disappear," Mikey pointed out.

Gerard looked abashed, then he looked over at Greta. She knew her face showed the misery she felt. His expression softened. Then he raised his voice to be heard over the babble in the library. “Enough!” They all looked over. “Ray, Brian, work on drawing up some believable looking settlement papers and some sort of reasonable background for Greta, since we can’t use her real one.” Ray grimaced, but shuffled through the mess of papers in front of him for a blank sheet. “Frank, Greta and I are going to go discuss how to best get our hands on her indenture papers.” Ray groaned quietly in the background, muttering about how he didn’t need to hear that, either. “Mikey, Alicia…” Gerard trailed off.

Alicia grabbed her husband’s hand. “I think we can find a way to entertain ourselves, thanks,” she said tartly, and towed Mikey from the room. Gerard and Frank followed, with Greta trailing behind. They veered across the hall into the front parlor. She felt like she was stepping into another world, one where everything was just slightly off kilter.

3.

When Gerard announced his intention to get a hold of Greta's papers, Frank knew he was busy scheming some sort of covert mission in his head. Unfortunately, planning was not Gerard's strong suit. Luckily, Gerard appeared to be open to discussion. Frank stopped at the parlor door, allowing Gerard and Greta to enter ahead of him. Greta, after a moment of hesitation, seated herself in a wing chair, smoothing her skirts over her knees. Gerard paced. Frank chose to remain standing also, leaning a shoulder against the mantel. Gerard still appeared slightly shocked by his sudden acquisition of a fake fiancée. Frank wasn’t sure why; the girl who had picked the lock on her sickroom door was certainly capable of such a creative falsehood--and a successful one, at that, at least so far. Greta, on the other hand, appeared distressed about the subject of her indenture papers, as well she should be. He took a moment to admire Mikey’s practicality. Gerard was lucky to have practical people all around him; Brian, Ray, Alicia and Mikey. Greta, from all appearances. He didn’t include himself in that number, realizing all too readily that all Gerard had to do was say the word, and Frank would follow along with any crazy scheme with eyes open. Like the one Gerard was currently proposing.

“We’re going to have to go over Lord Ashworth’s household schedule with you, Greta. Anything you can tell us about his office and personal papers, too. So Frank and I can break in and steal your papers. It’s the easiest way.” If not the most legal. Gerard looked expectantly at Greta, who flushed angrily.

“Like hell,” she retorted.

“Maybe you could elaborate?” Frank prompted gently when she said no more. She turned to look at him, and he was treated to his first view of Greta’s furious expression. He'd heard the stories of her contretemps with Alicia and with Mikey by this time, but he hadn’t ever experienced her temper for himself; he felt a sudden, entirely inappropriate surge of interest. _God, no,_ he told himself.

Greta repeated herself. “Like hell will you and Gerard undertake yet another illegal action on my behalf without me.” The last two words were carefully, quietly enunciated, and Frank knew immediately that this was an argument they’d lose.

Gerard opened his mouth to protest. “But – you – we – “ he garbled. Frank knew he was in the middle of an internal struggle; Gerard liked to expound on individual rights and personal responsibility, and Frank knew he believed every word.

Greta’s eyes never left Frank. It was obvious that she knew he’d be the tougher nut to crack. In the end, he was no match for her self-possession, and Gerard’s well-remembered lectures on women’s rights. “I suppose we need you,” he allowed. The words felt strange in his mouth, like they meant far more than they indicated. Ever since Gerard had returned home, and especially since he'd taken over the title, he’d needed plenty of people – people who weren’t Frank. Mikey, always. Alicia. Brian. Ray. Frank understood what they brought to this strange household. Yet somehow this felt different. If Frank wanted to give it an easy name, he’d call it jealousy. Frank had never been one to jump at easy answers. But he simply didn’t have time for a personal crisis. They needed Greta. It was a fact. He’d do whatever it took to make sure they could have her.

They began discussing the particulars of the Ashworth household, aware that they’d have to do a bit more reconnaissance before actually attempting their break-in. They were interrupted by a light knock at the door. Alicia poked her head in. “Gerard? Brian says you have an invitation to a dinner party at Lord Rotherwell’s tonight, and that if we can get Greta ready soon enough, it would be smart of you to take her with you.”

Greta looked up. “Oh. Well, that’s a little…I can’t say he’s in many of the same circles as Lord Ashworth, so…I mean…I don’t have anything appropriate to wear, for one thing.”

“Helena’s wardrobe is still in the attic,” Gerard offered. “Perhaps something of hers?”

Greta frowned instinctively, but then met Alicia’s gaze, and the two of them exchanged considering glances. “Hmm. We’ll see what we can find. She’ll need jewelry, of course,” Alicia told Gerard. He dug in his pockets till he found a bunch of keys, pulling off a small silver one.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with Lady Helena’s things.” Alicia nodded, and the two women left the parlor together. Once they were alone, Frank crossed the room to where Gerard was standing, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck. They merely looked at each other for a moment, until Gerard gently lowered his mouth to Frank’s. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Gerard whispered when he pulled away. Frank closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Gerard’s cheek.

“Me neither,” he said.

Later that evening, Frank stood by the front door with Gerard, who adjusted his cuffs nervously as they waited for Greta to put in an appearance. Brian leaned against the banister. They all looked up at the sound of women’s voices from the upstairs hall. Greta hurried down the stairs, followed by Alicia, who carried a cashmere wrap. When Greta paused at the bottom of the stairs, all Frank could do was stare. Gerard and Brian were similarly afflicted. Greta actually blushed under the scrutiny. “It’s the best we could do,” she said apologetically. She wore a medieval style gown in a rich turquoise satin, with ropes of black and white pearls draped around her neck.

“Perfectly…satisfactory,” Brian said dryly.

Gerard didn’t comment, and both Greta and Alicia looked concerned. “Gerard,” Alicia prodded.

He seemed to snap into awareness. “Mermaid,” he said. Greta looked horribly confused, but Frank suddenly understood, and chuckled. Alicia had a similar look of comprehension on her face. “I think I’ll paint you in those pearls. You’ll be a perfect mermaid,” Gerard continued. He looked abstracted; Frank and Alicia had both posed for him before, and they recognized his Artist Face immediately.

Greta still looked confused, but said politely, “Of course. Are we still going to dinner?” and Gerard seemed to snap out of it, taking the wrap from Alicia and draping it around Greta’s shoulders himself. Frank made a noise halfway between a growl and a laugh, and went outside to open the carriage door for them.

The dinner party seemed to go smoothly, as did the ball the two of them attended the next night. Gerard’s peers in general seemed to react to Gerard and Greta’s purported engagement with delight, or at least delight at the opportunity to gossip, and they seemed content with the vague yet socially acceptable antecedents Brian and Ray had invented for her. They pushed up their plans to infiltrate Lord Ashworth’s study. That afternoon, though, Gerard finally got Greta to sit for him. She donned the turquoise gown and pearls and reported to his studio, where Gerard was muttering over a sheaf of drawing paper. Frank was lounging on a couch in the corner of the room. He had no real reason to be there, but Gerard hadn’t sent him away, so he saw no reason to leave either.

Frank watched through the curling wisps of smoke from the cigar in his hand as Gerard posed Greta on a footstool, swirling her skirts into an approximation of a tail. “Can you…um…take down your hair?” He gestured vaguely toward her hair, caught up in an Apollo knot. She complied, removing the pins and letting the mass of blond curls fall to frame her face. “Good,” breathed Gerard. “Now, just pretend to comb…” Kneeling at her feet, he reached for a strand, but stopped before he actually made contact, his hand hovering in the neighborhood of her cheek. Greta obediently separated a long lock, combing her fingers through it slowly. Gerard hurried back to his easel, his pencil moving furiously over a sheet of paper.

Frank sat frozen on his couch, feeling as if a fist had closed around his lungs. He couldn’t look away from Greta’s shining curtain of blond hair, and Gee’s pleased hum rang in his ears. He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, and he must have made a noise himself because the scratching of Gerard’s pencil stopped. “Frank?” Gerard asked.

“Yes?” he rasped. Gerard looked like he was about to ask what was wrong, but he never did. Instead, he tilted his head to the side; that was the Artist Face.

“Will you go sit with Greta, Frank?”

“I…yes?” He stood hesitantly. Things were looking to get complicated really quickly. Gerard was muttering again.

“Sleeping? No. Washed ashore. Discovered by a sailor, who can’t believe what he’s found.” He shuffled his paper till a fresh sheet was on top. “Frank? With Greta, over here. Greta, you've weathered a storm and you’re unconscious, you’ve washed up against some rocks. Frank, you find her, cradle her unresponsive body. You’re a little worse for wear yourself. Here, pull this chaise over.” He pushed and prodded Frank till he was kneeling on the chaise, then turned to Greta. “He’s lifting you, but you don't wake. For right now, just let him pick you up so I can do sketches, all right?”

Greta flashed a quick look at Frank. He was fairly sure she wasn’t all right, but he wasn’t about to say anything if she didn’t. She eased herself onto the chaise, and Frank gathered her up in his arms, letting Gerard adjust his grip and the position of her arms. Under his hands, Greta’s spine was drawn as taut as a bowstring. Gerard wandered back over to his easel, and as the pencil scratching resumed, he murmured, “I’m not any more comfortable than you are, you know.” And watched her eyes flash.

“I’m fine, Frank,” she retorted, and turned her face away. Her hair tickled his arm. But he could hear that her breathing wasn’t quite steady, and when Gerard told them he was done, she bolted upright in the circle of Frank’s arms. It was a reflex for him to grab onto her shoulder, and her eyes dropped to his hand, then met his. He couldn’t read the expression there. She shook him off, and hurried from the room without another word.

The three of them met outside the service entrance at the appointed time that night. All three wore dark clothing; not a problem for Gerard or Frank, naturally. Greta appeared in a slightly threadbare jacket and trousers, her hair hidden by a soft cap. The clothing had most likely belonged to a teenage Gerard or Mikey, to judge from Gerard’s amused chuckle. She made a criminally attractive teenage boy; Frank only realized he was staring when she shot him a dirty look. He turned to Gerard. “We'll need to hire a hack to Ashworth’s. And Greta, for God’s sake, stay close. You look…”

“Like a pretty boy?” Greta needled, with a knowing smile. Frank always forgot that she’d spent several years as a servant. The doll-like face and good breeding were part of her, but another part was entirely worldly.

“Young,” he retorted.

“I’m not so young.”

“Younger than me.”

Then Gerard, who had been smoking silently nearby, interrupted with a dry, “If you’re quite finished with the flirtation, perhaps we could get moving?” Greta huffed and stalked off towards the alley dividing their garden from the neighboring mansions.

 _Flirting?_ Frank mouthed indignantly at Gerard, who merely raised an eyebrow before following Greta. Frank had to hurry to overtake them.

They hailed a hackney a few blocks over, riding the rest of the way in silence. The intermittent light from the streetlamps highlighted the taut line of Greta’s jaw. Gerard’s arm stretched negligently along the back of the seat, hand heavy against the back of Frank’s neck. The hackney let them off down the street from Lord Ashworth’s town house, and Frank gestured to Greta to lead the way. They trailed her slim, dark figure through a series of alleys until they were looking at the back of the Ashworth mansion. Greta pointed out the darkened windows of the stillroom – “our best chance to get in and out easily,” she had explained – and identified several rooms in the wing with lighted windows. The office was about three-quarters of the way down the wing towards the main house.

Leaving Gerard where he was as lookout, Frank and Greta eased through the stillroom window, finding that the latch was as easily jimmied as Greta had remembered. Frank followed as she made her silent progress down the corridor. They reached Lord Ashworth’s office with ridiculous ease, actually, and Greta went to draw the draperies closed while Frank sparked a light in the lamp on the desk. Greta picked the lock on the secretary desk easily and rifled through its contents quickly, lifting out several document boxes. She and Frank each sifted through the contents silently; on the fourth box, Frank made a triumphant noise and touched the back of Greta’s hand. “Servant records,” he whispered. She took the sheaf of papers and flipped through till she found one with the characteristic jagged edge of an indenture document. She tipped it toward the light, letting out a tiny sigh of relief as she saw her own name. She folded it and tucked it in her pocket, handing the rest of the stack back to Frank. They made short work of replacing the boxes, and Frank re-triggered the lock on the desk, then doused the lantern so Greta could straighten the window coverings. Easing the office door open, they crept back down the hall. Then Frank heard a most unwelcome sound – rapidly approaching voices. He reacted instantly, swinging them both into a dark doorway, partially hidden by a dusty wallhanging. Since they were both small and compact, it was just enough cover. Frank breathed a silent prayer; he was fairly sure Greta had stopped breathing entirely.

When the voices disappeared into a doorway halfway down the hall, Frank relaxed a little, only to realize that they were pressed together from cheek to thigh; that he had gone instantly, obviously hard; and that Greta’s breath against his neck was distinctly unsteady. Some uncontrollable corner of Frank’s brain said _Yes._ His hips pressed insistently against her, his teeth grazing the curve of her jaw; there was that little hitch again. He turned his head slightly, and she made a tiny noise into his mouth as their lips pressed together. Her hand tightened on his arm to just past the point of pain.

Greta gasped and pulled her mouth away, and he barely heard her hissed “What are you doing? We have to get out of here” over the roaring blood in his ears. But when she pushed against his shoulder, he got it. They retreated silently back to the stillroom. He felt the absence of her body heat only when he had to touch her again, to boost her through the window. They thudded onto the hard dirt beneath the window one after the other and slunk away through the garden.

Gerard materialized from the shadows at the corner of the house, looking even paler than usual. He studied their tense faces, and Greta jumped to assure him, “We were nearly caught. But we got it,” pressing a hand against her jacket pocket. He nodded tersely, and their three black figures melted away from the Ashworth residence. Once they were safely ensconced in a hackney, Frank jittered helplessly in place. The surge of arousal had faded, leaving his skin crawling with unspent energy. Greta curled in the corner of one bench seat, as far away from Frank as she could get. He could see her hands shaking. Gerard slumped opposite Frank, long fingers idly twisting the cuff of his coat. It was an utterly familiar Gerard mannerism; Frank’s stomach twisted with guilt. Even now he was attuned to each breath, each movement Gerard or Greta made. That, more than anything else, convinced him that the incident in the hallway couldn’t be dismissed as an aberration. _No,_ he told that rebellious corner of his brain. _Why her? Why now? Just...why?_ It was beginning to sound a little desperate, even in his own head.

Mikey and Alicia were both waiting in the kitchen when they arrived home. “Well?” Mikey asked. Alicia’s eyes skipped curiously from face to face.

The heavy paper crackled as Greta drew it from her pocket, silently spreading it out on the kitchen table. From another pocket she withdrew another sheet, heavily folded and creased. When she smoothed it flat, the jagged edges matched perfectly, as did the untidy scrawl that had consigned her into service as debt repayment. They all stared at the document in silence for a moment, then Greta swept the papers off the table and tossed them into the fire. She gave them a vicious nudge with the iron poker until they were fully ablaze, then dropped the metal rod with a clatter, turned, and stalked from the room. The others looked startled by the display of temper. Frank looked over at Gerard. He wanted to say “Please” or “I’m sorry” or “I love you,” but what he actually managed was merely an agonized “Let me – ” before his muscles unfroze, and he bolted after Greta.

She was moving fast, already up the servants’ stairs and halfway down the hallway before he was close enough to grab her arm and spin her around. Their combined momentum carried them into a closed door, which Frank noted dimly was that of his own bedroom; he twisted the knob and catapulted them into the dark room. Only as he crushed their mouths together did it strike him that this was not what he had intended to do. It was too late for rational thought, though, as Greta’s hands slipped under the hem of his shirt, nails scoring the soft flesh of his back. As he pressed her into the mattress of his seldom-used bed, driving her ruthlessly toward climax with lips and hands. As the frantic collision of their hips sent him shuddering over the edge after her.

Afterwards, his face pressed into her neck, he counted silently as her pulse slowed down to a normal beat. “Why?” she asked, simply.

“I want you,” he answered, just as simply. “I could pretend it was just the excitement of tonight, or because you’re upset. But…I don't think it is. I just want you. Would you rather I lie?” She didn’t say anything. “Obviously you would. Why?”

“Because of Gerard?” Greta answered. She sighed. “I owe him my life. I don't know exactly how things stand between you, but.... This seems like unfair repayment.” She wriggled out from under him, but he pinned her with an arm across her midsection.

“And if I say I have to tell him?” Frank asked quietly. “Assuming he doesn’t figure it out for himself.” Gerard was a lot more observant than most people gave him credit for. Gerard, thought Frank resignedly, probably did already know, and was keeping silent out of some misguided sense of fair play. Frank felt keenly how little he deserved that.

“Then you might as well have left me at Lord Ashworth’s,” Greta said grimly, pushing at his restraining arm and slipping off the bed. “How long do you think a taste of something I can’t have will satisfy me? How long will it satisfy you?” Frank didn’t have any answers to that. She stood in the middle of the room, perfectly still, for a long moment before turning jerkily to leave.

She swung the door wide and nearly ran into Gerard, who stood on the other side. His eyes traveled from Greta’s flushed cheeks to Frank’s disheveled form. His sigh was nearly inaudible. Then he curved one hand around Greta’s shoulder and said conversationally, “I’ll want to paint tomorrow, I think, so get some rest.” His eyes flicked back to Frank for a moment before he did something unexpected; he leaned down to press a tiny kiss to Greta’s hair and murmured, “Don’t you dare run now.” She drew a pained breath and jerked away, but her steps in the hallway were measured. Neither Frank nor Gerard said a word till the sound had faded.

Gerard took a slow drag on his ever present Spanish cigarette before crushing the butt into a glass dish on a nearby side table. Suddenly the words Frank had tried to say earlier came rushing out. “I’m sorry – I love you - _please_ ,” he rasped. He was on his feet in the next moment, stretching a hand out but touching only air.

“Please forgive you? Or please let you go?”

“Gerard,” Frank choked. _No._ He closed his eyes in misery.

“I just have to know, Frank,” Gerard said gently. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know! No – please, just – forgive me. It won't happen again.”

“First answer counts, too, Frank.” Gerard stepped closer, tucking Frank’s hair behind his ear. Frank turned his head helplessly into the touch. “I love you too, you know,” he whispered against Frank’s mouth. “Now please come to bed.”

*

If Gerard hadn't already grasped the depth of Frank's contrition, the way Frank - not submissive by nature - laid himself out for Gerard's touch that night would have convinced him. Did convince him. And Gerard was only human. He took what was offered to him. When Frank, sweat-soaked, back arching off the bed, begged Gerard to mark him, he did. The finger-shaped bruises on Frank's hips weren't visible the next day, but the teethmarks on his neck stood out in high relief against his creamy skin. The loose linen shirt he wore to the portrait session hid nothing. Gerard caught Greta's eyes returning to the livid mark time after time. She made a valiant effort to hid it, but the bruised-looking skin under her eyes and the faint line between her eyebrows spoke of disquiet. Gerard had tried, late in the night as Frank breathed quietly beside him, to summon some anger at her. He'd found none; try as he might, he couldn't exactly blame her for responding to Frank's blatant interest. It was _Frank_. Gerard had certainly never denied him anything. Including forgiveness, so perhaps it was for the best that they just moved on.

These were Gerard's thoughts, wakeful in the night with a sleeping Frank beside him. Now, with the two of them delineated in sharp relief by the sunlight through the long windows, echoed on the canvas before him, he saw the difficulty of that plan. Their consciousness of each other, their forced nonchalance, infused the pose. Gerard found himself requesting, over and over, that they adjust an arm, tilt their heads more, until he finally stalked over the the chaise and made the necessary adjustments himself.

He left his hands on Frank far longer than was strictly necessary, or socially acceptable in mixed company, until the other man's breath quickened audibly. When he transferred his attention to Greta, her color was already high. She closed her eyes, denying Gerard eye contact, but he felt the moment she relaxed into Frank's embrace. Gerard's hand lingered for a moment, sweeping along the silken skin of her arm. He caught Frank's eye and felt himself flush a dull red, quickly returning to the safety of his easel.

Gerard wasn't sure if he was punishing them or himself by keeping them for increasingly lengthy poses; each successive portrait session brought him closer to the point where he could release them from service as models, yet Gerard delayed. It was a heady feeling to have them here, locked in a lover's embrace for him. It was always in the back of his mind, and yet the thought of them together in an even more private setting, when it finally surfaced, made the blood rush from his head with breathless speed. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly achingly hard, and caught sight of Frank and Greta beyond the canvas, valiantly holding their pose while taking turns making ridiculous faces at each other. Frank was suppressing a grin and Greta succumbed to her silent laughter, tipping her face into Frank's chest to hide her own smile as he cradled her close.

Gerard's voice nearly broke as he rasped out, "We're done for the day." He feigned absorption in his palette as they rose and stretched, and after a moment heard both pairs of footsteps leave the room. Frank's giggle paired with Greta's airy laugh as Frank made some unintelligible remark; Gerard mainly heard the blood rushing in his ears as he pushed his hand past the waistband of his trousers, slumping back against the back of his chair as he jacked himself with rough, unsteady motions. _To hell with this_ , he thought dimly, gasping into the empty room as he came.

Greta returned to the studio, later that evening. Gerard was, thankfully, cleaned up, and largely absorbed in grinding pigments for his paints. The light knock at the door startled him. She slipped into the room, a warm woolen wrap around her shoulders. In her hand was a basket holding a silver carafe. "Alicia sent this up with me. Hot tea. It's drafty in here; you should really light the fire." She gestured towards the cold hearth.

"The smoke fogs my canvases," he responded shortly.

"Then maybe you should have the flue cleaned," Greta said tartly. She set the basket down on his work table with a muted clank and turned to leave.

"No! Wait," Gerard said, reaching out a hand. She intercepted it before it reached her, rotating it gently.

"Ran out of red paint, I see," she said conversationally.

"Yes. No. Greta..."

"Did you need something else?" she asked mildly.

He sighed, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands. "I need to talk to you," he said, and watched her expression go shuttered. "About Frank," he pressed on.

He could actually see Greta flinch. She opened her mouth and words spilled out in a small flood. "I never wanted - I mean, I _did_ want obviously, but I never would have said a word, ever - and he was there, suddenly, and I just couldn't...God, how angry you must be at me." She sat on the chaise, burying her face in her hands.

"I'm not angry," Gerard replied, subsiding onto the chaise beside her.

She looked up slowly. "No?" she said softly.

"I tried to be," Gerard admitted. "But I wouldn't have been able to refuse him either, so how can I hold it against you?"

Greta turned her head away, cheeks flushed pink. "He loves you so much," she whispered.

Gerard looked down at the scuffed leather of his boots. "I know he does," he answered. "That doesn't mean he doesn't feel anything for you." He heard her quick inhalation, but it was a long moment before she responded.

"It doesn't matter," she said severely.

"Doesn't it?" Gerard pressed. "You don't care what Frank feels for you?"

Her hand clenched around a fold of her skirt. "Of course I care," she hissed. "But how could it possibly matter?"

"It matters because I think he's at least half in love with you already, and that's knowing he can't be with you."

The look Greta gave him was agonized. "Are you punishing me now?" she whispered.

He looked to the ceiling and sighed. "Yes, Greta, clearly I'm punishing you by telling you the man I love is enamored of with you."

She retorted, "Well, I can't imagine what the purpose would be, otherwise."

He took a deep breath. "To give you permission. To...be with him."

Greta froze. "You're...sharing Frank?" Gerard nodded slowly. "Have you discussed this with him?"

"No..."Gerard said slowly.

"Maybe you should," she said quietly. Gerard frowned; he'd expected her to sound happy. Instead, she just sounded tired. She was watching his face; she continued, "Because possibly he won't appreciate you arranging his life for him?"

He gaped. "I don't do things like that!"

Greta laid one hand against the side of his face, just a whisper of cool skin. "You sort of do," she murmured. "Not that I don't think your intentions are good," she leaned in and kissed his cheek, catching the corner of his mouth, "but maybe we don't need so many complications in our lives right now." And she left him alone in the studio with his own complications.

He took her advice, but he waited until the next evening to speak to Frank, watched as hope and disbelief warred in the beloved gold-brown eyes as Gerard spoke. "What did Greta say?" Frank asked hesitantly.

"That it was too complicated," Gerard mumbled. Frank's face went stony, and he stood up without another word. _Damn, that may have come out wrong,_ Gerard thought, and scrambled to follow him as he stormed down the hall, heading unerringly to the music room where Greta was accompanying Mikey. Mikey startled at the door slamming open, the bow scraping hideously over the cello strings. Gerard hovered, frozen, in the doorway as Frank snatched Greta off the piano bench and gave her a brutal kiss. Mikey raised his eyebrows at Gerard, and Gerard shook his head.

Greta pulled away from Frank, gasping, "What...."

"'Too complicated'?" Frank gritted out, and Greta looked over at Gerard, opening her mouth. But Frank wasn't done. "I'm good at complicated," he said accusingly, "and the Greta I know, she wasn't afraid of complications."

"Frank," she choked, "this is not the place..."

"Oh, I think it is," he responded. "Is that it, Greta? You've got it back now, your music and your ladylike pursuits, and there's no room for a nobleman's toy boy in it?" The words dropped like stones into a pool. Greta stared for a moment, then her palm cracked sharply across Frank's face.

"The Frank I know wouldn't say such a thing to me...or about himself," she said angrily. She turned her back on them all, walking stiffly towards a window and its black panes of glass. Gerard looked hard at Frank, who went red and stammered, "Gee...I didn't mean it."

"Don't apologize to me," Gerard answered, but only after taking a deep breath or two. "Mikey and I are going to take a little walk," he added meaningfully. Mikey frowned, but followed Gerard out the door. Gerard hovered in the hallway for a few moments, but when he heard no raised voices from inside the music room, he sighed and walked down the hall toward the kitchen, Mikey trailing. When Gerard collapsed into a chair, Mikey burst out, "What in God's name just happened, Gee?"

"Probably about what you think happened," Gerard told him wearily.

"Frank and Greta? And you're...comfortable with that?"

Gerard laughed grimly. "I can hear what you're not saying, little brother. And yes, dammit, I admit I have no clue what I've just done, but am I comfortable with it? Yes, because seeing people I love in pain is unacceptable."

"I agree," Mikey replied, and Gerard frowned. "No. Wait. Let me say one thing, Gee. You're so determined to see everyone else happy. I'm determined to see you happy. If those two things should ever conflict, I will always pick you. Always. You should just know that."

Gerard delayed going to bed as long as he feasibly could. His brother sat with him in the kitchen for a while in companionable silence. It was one of Mikey's gifts. His fingers tapped against the tabletop occasionally in a rhythm known only to himself, but his shoulder was solid where he leaned it against Gerard's. Finally, though, after even Mikey had retired, Gerard steeled himself and went upstairs. His room was dark, chilly. He stoked the fire himself, stripping off the day's clothes and crawling under the covers. Alone. Frank didn't come to bed that night. Gerard lay in bed willing sleep to come, watching images play across the backs of his eyelids - Frank and Greta, intertwined - and feeling the same delirious, flushed, furtive rush of desire he'd felt the other day. He didn't know if he could stand this after all; what had he done?

Frank crept into the room with the grey light of very early dawn. Gerard woke when he did so; he slept lightly at best when Frank wasn't with him. He sat up and watched as Frank slowly shucked his clothes, climbed under the covers. He didn't lie down, merely slid close to Gerard so he could sit and look him in the eyes. "Gee," he whispered. "Gee, I didn't spend the night with Greta."

"I told you you could," Gerard said faintly.

"Hell, Gerard, you practically gave me an order to. But I didn't."

"She turned you down, then?"

"I didn't _ask_ , Gerard," Frank spat out.

"You will," Gerard mumbled sleepily, wrapping his arms around Frank's chest. It was only a matter of time.

4.

After several weeks of almost-nightly dinner parties and other outings, Greta was starting to understand why Gerard preferred hiding in his studio to attending supposed "entertainments". The people were horribly inane. She was nearly as invisible as when she had been a maid; pretending to be a flighty, absentminded young girl was boring when you didn't have to work very hard to convince people. It usually made spying easy, though. This particular party was worse than most; there were more stuffy Parliamentary gentlemen than usual in attendance. Good for Gerard, but bad for her, since she didn't blend in, but no one was particularly interested in talking to her, either. There was a lot of talk about hunting and investments and such.

Bored, she drifted over the the pianoforte in the corner of the morning room. The hubbub of voices was muffled in there, dampened by a wall of half-open pocket doors between it and the main drawing room. Greta sat down at the pianoforte and began to play softly, some old folk songs, a few of her original compositions. Lost in concentration, she started at a movement by her shoulder, fingers stumbling to a halt as she turned towards the newcomer. It was a short, neatly dressed ginger-haired man with spectacles. "That was a lovely piece," he said. "I didn't mean to interrupt you, but I've never heard it before, and I wanted to ask its name."

This was a strange echo of her first real conversation with Mikey. Summoning a little courage, she replied, "I'm afraid I've never named it."

His eyes brightened. "You wrote it?" He kept talking, bringing up several points about key changes and asking if she studied the work of certain composers. He probably would have kept on talking indefinitely. Definitely reminded her of Mikey. She gave him her sweetest smile and offered a hand.

"I'm Greta Peterson," she said, sorry for the first time that she had to use the false name, since this gentleman had complimented her music.

He blushed a little. "How rude of me. Patrick Stump, Miss Peterson," He took her hand and gave a correct little bow over it. She bit the inside of her cheek in an effort to collect herself. Patrick Stump, the famous composer! And, lest she forget, Peter Wentz's closest friend. She snapped back into a calculating frame of mind, determined to serve Gerard well somehow.

"It's an honor to make your acquaintance," she replied, then added disingenuously, "I particularly enjoy your music. Gerard would love to meet you, I'm sure. He admires your newest cello concerto."

"Hmm, Lord Way. Of course. I saw you come in together. I'm afraid we've never met, though. I didn't know he was a music lover." Mr. Stump pulled off his spectacles, polishing them absentmindedly against his waistcoat.

"He has many interests. His brother is a musician, and he's quite an accomplished artist. But lately he's primarily occupied with researching some legislature for Parliament," Greta replied smoothly. Because she was watching closely, she saw his gaze sharpen a little, and thought, _Yes, he's certainly heard of Gerard, even recognizes him on sight._ Then it struck her; the affable Mr. Stump was only as absentminded as she herself was. Gerard was being vetted, through her. She was suddenly certain of it. She was struck with an inappropriate burst of amusement, which she managed to contain.

Mr. Stump gave a small cough, and she snapped back into awareness, realizing he'd been studying her studying him. To hide her discomfiture, she began running through gentle arpeggios on the keyboard.

Mr. Stump sat down beside her on the piano bench, leaning closer to speak to her softly. "You're quite talented at that," he mused.

"Playing piano?"

"Playing the game you're playing," he responded dryly.

She couldn't control the wicked grin, so she didn't bother. "Likewise, I'm sure. I'm delighted you're keeping up, though." She segued from the mindless arpeggios into the introduction to a fiendishly difficult four-handed piano concerto, slanting a look at him. He chuckled and reached for the keys, adding the upper two hands at precisely the right measure.

The impromptu piano duet was lively enough that it began to draw a crowd. Greta glanced around under her lashes and caught sight of Gerard, whose facial expression telegraphed shocked recognition. Greta tried to convey _We have to talk!_ with her own, but wasn't sure if she'd managed. After they finished the concerto, there was a smattering of applause and a few "Mr. Stump, play another!" comments from the crowd. He looked sideways at Greta, who stood and applauded him herself, dropping a quick curtsy and giving him a small smile before drifting off into the crowd. A few people stopped her to compliment her playing, but she was able to slip away as Mr. Stump began another pianoforte arrangement.

Gerard found her by the French doors to the terrace. "I was just about to look for you and ask if you were ready to leave, and...Greta! That was Patrick Stump!" His tone held an air of disbelief. She looked around to see if anyone was watching, and then grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him outside.

"Gerard, you really won't believe it! I have to tell you--can we go home, really?" She was exhausted. First the tedious party, then the exchange with Mr. Stump, and then the piano concerto...she just played with Patrick Stump. "I just played with Patrick Stump," she repeated to Gerard, wide-eyed.

He took one look at her swaying in place, and grabbed her hand. "Carriages are this way, come on." They ran off hand-in-hand like a couple of wayward children, until Greta pulled him to a stop by the Way horses.

"Gerard," she began seriously, "Mr. Stump and I were discussing _you_! He was curious about you. I'm positive it's because _Wentz_ is curious."

"I talked to another Wentz crony tonight," Gerard told her. "Very casual, but he approached _me_." Gerard looked delighted. "I'm finally getting somewhere." Greta beamed at him, and he beamed right back, pulling her close and kissing her soundly on the mouth.

Perhaps - probably - he had meant it in a spirit of celebration, but Greta froze, jerking back in shock, eyes flying to meet his. She knew it was all-too-revealing, but the delicate detente between Gerard, Greta, and Frank surely wasn't meant to cover such an occurrence. Gerard looked rather shocked as well. Then something shifted in his eyes, and he reached for her again, fingertips skimming along the curve of her jaw. "Greta..." he started. Then, from nearby, a sound intruded - the sound of a throat clearing meaningfully. They both looked up.

"You know," drawled a familiar voice - Frank's voice, coming from where he'd been perched unseen atop the Way carriage - "if there's going to be further kissing, it would be nice if you'd hold off on that until we get home. Or so help me--"

Gerard laughed recklessly, though he was tellingly red-cheeked. "Or so help you, what?" he challenged. Greta just stared. Further kissing? And Gerard wasn't denying it. She felt like she had missed some sort of important development. Frank looked back steadily at both of them.

"Or I'll let these horses have their heads, and get in that carriage with both of you right here," he responded throatily.

Greta gasped. The look on Frank's face was enough to have her itching with need, squirming in her too-tight skin. "Take us home, Frank," Gerard breathed, and handed her up into the carriage, following behind her and leaning out to close the door as they lurched into motion. The momentary imbalance sent Greta tumbling half into his lap, and he caught her with a firm hand wrapped around her hip. It was too much contact and not nearly enough, all at the same time. She felt raw, flayed open, and she had no idea where things were going.

*

Frank drove the carriage home in a fog, unable to concentrate on anything other than how his passengers were occupying themselves. Greta's eyes went straight to Frank when Gerard handed her down from the carriage at the front door of the Way mansion. Frank raised an amused brow at Greta's reddened lips - she'd been biting them, he thought. A glint of humor sparked in her eyes, behind the glaze of shock she'd made no attempt to hide, and Frank looked next at Gerard, whose eyes were dark, intent. He recognized the look; Gerard was itching to _touch_. It was a look Frank was used to seeing directed at himself. How had he missed seeing this before now? Frank regretfully took himself off to the stable, making short work of bedding the carriage horses down for the night, apologizing with pats to their noses and mentally promising to bring apples tomorrow morning.

When he made it inside, he found Alicia having tea in the kitchen. She studied him over the rim of her steaming cup, and told him, "Your co-conspirators have already retired for the evening. Gerard asked me to tell to you go on upstairs." She took a sip of tea, and continued dryly, "From the looks of things, you all must have decided your lives weren't complicated enough already." Alicia, like Mikey, had the tendency to see entirely too much, but rarely passed judgment.

"Alicia, where's your spirit of romance?" Frank chided her gently.

She rolled her eyes. "Hiding from the spirit of insanity possessing everyone else in this house." Her tone was fond, but resigned. She feinted throwing her teaspoon at him, and he retreated, ducking out the line of fire and clattering up the back staircase.

Greta and Gerard were smiling at each other when Frank entered the master suite. Gerard was mid-anecdote, hands flying, and Greta was giggling. Frank could read them both well by now, and he knew they were both unsettled, nervous. At the sound of the bolt sliding home in the door frame, two pairs of wide eyes - one green, one brown - met his. Frank knew if he wanted this - and lord, did he want this - it was up to him to be the aggressor. He smiled, knowing his expression was nearly feral. He knew neither of them would be particularly disturbed.

Frank went to Gerard first, catching one of his out-flung hands and yanking him close. He fisted the other hand in Gerard's hair, drawing his head down. Gerard made a strangled noise and grabbed a handful of Frank's shirt, biting at his lips until they were both panting a little. From nearby, he heard a tiny sound, and he turned to Greta, Gerard warm against his back. "Come here?" Frank asked her quietly. She stepped closer, and when she was within arm's reach he curled his hands around to the back of her head, removing all of her glittering hairpins and letting them fall to the carpet. He twisted his fingers through the gleaming blond tail trailing down her back, pulling her close to kiss her, too. "I’ve been desperate for another taste of you," he murmured into her mouth, laughing with sheer delight at the broken sound that fell from her lips, into his. He felt the edge of her teeth a moment later and laughed again. "You and Gerard might draw blood," Frank said, watching her eyes go to Gerard over Frank's shoulder. Then he slipped out from between them. "I'm just going to go over to the bed and...watch. For now," he told them cheerfully, meaningfully. When they didn't immediately move, he added gently, "Less clothing would probably help matters."

Gerard stepped slowly into the vacated space, one hand curling around Greta's neck, thumb pressing lightly against the pulse in her throat. He didn't move to kiss her, or move at all, and Greta reached slowly for his cravat and shirt studs, spreading the halves of linen shirtfront when she was done to expose his pale skin. Frank heard the hitch in Gerard's breath as her fingertips brushed his skin, and obviously Greta did too; her fingers twitched and she leaned closer to press a kiss against the spot where Gerard's collarbones met, looking up at him through her lashes. He shuddered. "Has Frank been coaching you?"

"Maybe I don't need coaching. Do you?" she asked with a small smile, gently baiting.

Gerard's answer was to step behind her, artist's fingers deftly manipulating the laces of her gown. "Shall we find out?" he murmured against the skin of her shoulder. Her gown and petticoats didn't need much encouragement to slither to the floor and pool around her feet. She turned back around within the encircling fabric, studying his face. Gerard looked a little dazed. Frank could see her gain confidence from that; she stretched up on her toes to kiss his mouth, and this time Gerard wrapped an arm around her waist, urging her hips closer. Greta stifled a small sound, leaning into him for a moment before pulling back and hopping up onto the bed, looking over at Frank inquiringly.

Frank grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his lap, feeling the silk of her chemise rasp against the rougher fabric of his trousers. He'd already taken the opportunity to remove his shirt; he could feel the heat emanating from her through the silk barrier. "All right?" he asked, looking from Greta to Gerard.

Then Gerard was joining them on the bed, hands sliding oh-so-gently up Greta's bare legs, whispering against the skin of her thighs. She squirmed, made a soft noise of surprise that was quickly muffled by his mouth. Just like that, one hand curved around her hip and the other disappeared under the hem of her chemise. "Wanted to touch you for weeks now," he murmured against her lips. "Didn't know I'd be allowed." Gerard's mouth meandered downwards for what seemed like an eternity, tasting her nipples, her navel, through the thin fabric, his touch tentative. Her head fell back against Frank's shoulder, her small noises mingling with his own uneven breaths. When Gerard transferred the swipes of his tongue to the folds between her legs, Greta moaned, rolling her hips. Frank bit back a rough noise of his own as she pressed back against his own leaking cock. She lifted her face to him for a kiss, and through his eyelashes he watched her fingers tangle in Gerard's dark hair. Then Gerard did something clever with his fingers and she came with a gasp and a shudder. She tugged on his hair, and Frank caught the flash of green eyes as Gerard raised his head.

"Please," Greta whispered, reduced to near wordlessness. Frank wasn't sure who she was talking to, but it didn't seem to matter because Gerard was already moving, shoving at his trousers and struggling to his knees on the mattress beside her, and she climbed off Frank's lap to straddle Gerard's thighs, letting gravity guide him inside. Gerard rasped something unintelligible as his hands fastened over her hips, and he started to move. Frank shifted closer, reaching down and jacking himself through his open trousers, leaning over her shoulder to kiss Gerard. Greta was leaving a trail of purple love bites along Gerard's neck, and Gerard snapped his hips up, hard, making her arch her spine as she came, again, with an inarticulate noise. Gerard followed moments later, his hand sliding from Greta's hip to slip down Frank's arm, helping him along. Frank came messily not too long afterwards, letting his head drop forward to rest heavily between Greta's shoulder blades. For a little while the only sound in the room was three people's harsh breathing, and the occasional crackle of a log in the fireplace.

Greta eventually made a contented noise, collapsing sideways against the pillows. She pulled Gerard with her, nestling her face against his neck. Frank climbed carefully over both of them till he could curl around Gerard's back, and Gerard practically melted into the double embrace.

Frank reluctantly rolled out of bed when the chill in the room became noticeable. He fed several more logs to the fire, and stopped by the washbasin to clean himself up a little. He grabbed a nightshirt from Gerard's wardrobe and dropped it on his head as he crawled back into bed. Gerard sputtered and sat up, but he pulled the fabric over his head once he figured out what it was. Frank tugged the coverlet up for good measure, earning a pleased murmur from a mostly-sleeping Greta. Then he curled back around Gerard and fell asleep.

*

Gerard awoke the next morning to an unfamiliar tickling sensation. It was, he discovered upon cracking an eyelid, a long lock of blond hair that had draped itself across his chest. It belonged to the blond head pillowed on his shoulder. Gerard's stomach clenched a little in surprise, but he began to laugh soundlessly as the entirety of last night came back to him, and the movement woke Greta, who peered up at him through half-lidded eyes. “…sofunny?” she grumbled.

“Not used to waking up with beautiful – cranky,” he amended, “blonds.” He yawned.

“Get used to it,” she mumbled. “Less laughing, more sleeping.” And she flung an arm across his chest, burrowing her face in the pillow. And since Gerard wasn’t exactly at his best in the mornings either, he had no problem complying.

Frank came back inside a while later, bringing with him a whiff of fresh air and horses. He’d been up for hours, tending to Gerard’s stable and doing whatever else he did in the early mornings – smoke and gossip with Alicia and Bob, Gerard always suspected. He vaulted onto the bed, half tumbling onto Gerard and wrapping what were undoubtedly cold hands around Greta’s cheeks. She sputtered a little, and Frank peppered her face with kisses until she batted him away, hiding her face in Gerard’s shoulder. Gerard merely hooked his free arm around Frank, submitting to a repeat of the same procedure.

Frank was beaming. “I wasn’t sure I’d find you both…still here,” he said happily, but his expression was rather questioning as well, and Gerard sighed, unable to give him the reassurance he so obviously wanted. He hadn't known what to feel the night of the indenture papers, when Frank stood in his room with reddened lips and worried eyes, and had given in to Frank’s desperate, unspoken pleas and simply not pressed the issue. But after that night, when he had them in his studio – yes, he’d certainly known what to do then, with the defeated hunger that had gripped him at the sight of them. This new feeling was entirely unfamiliar territory. He hadn't allowed himself to hope for this, and he didn't know what to trust.

“Almost forgot,” Frank’s voice cut into his brief reverie, “Gee, Pete Wentz is downstairs, and Alicia sent Mikey to entertain him till you’re done being…indisposed.” Gerard swore and pushed himself to his feet, rushing over to rifle through his wardrobe. He sent a baleful glance at a chuckling Frank. Greta followed him at a more leisurely pace, stopping to pull on a dressing gown she found draped over the back of a nearby chair. She shoved Gerard aside and calmly sorted through the wardrobe, extracting a pair of trousers, waistcoat, shirt, and cravat within seconds. She handed them over and Gerard began dressing in a rush, practically dancing in place as Frank grabbed him and tied his cravat. He felt hands in his hair, as well; Greta was attempting to create some sort of order in the black strands. He met her eyes, and she smiled, the expression so uncomplicated, so fond, that he was struck with the sudden realization, _This might actually work._

When they were done they stood surveying their handiwork, heads tilted at a nearly identical angle. Gerard shook his head at them, wondering if they had any idea what an oddly perfect combination they were. Maybe it was better if they didn't. Greta tugged at the belt of the borrowed dressing gown and told him, “I’ll go change and come downstairs soon.” Frank swatted at Gerard and said, “Go!” Gerard went.

*

As the door clicked shut behind Gerard, Greta felt two arms wrap around her waist from behind. Frank nudged her hair aside to mouth gently at her neck. "Watching you with Gee, last night...Greta...." he reached for the knot of the belt and untied it, sliding his hands inside and tracing the curves of her hips and breasts.

"When do I get to watch?" she whispered throatily. She giggled a little as his breath tickled her neck, letting out a sudden moan as his fingers tweaked a nipple.

" _Jesus_ , Greta. Anytime. Want you so much," he murmured into her ear.

"Frank," she panted, "I have to go downstairs."

"No," he answered, "You're all mine right now. They'll just have to go on without you."

She turned in his arms, pressing her hips brazenly against his and mouthing at the tendon in his neck. "Well, this probably won't take too long."

Frank laughed thickly and tilted his head back to give her better access. "I'll disprove that some other time, when it's less likely to be true." She plucked at his clothes, and he pushed the dressing gown off her arms, tugging the chemise over her head as well. He took a moment to study her naked body with an appreciative leer before she reached out an impatient hand and shoved him in the direction of the bed. Pulling his clothing the rest of the way off, he grabbed her and pulled her down with him. The sheets were still warm, and still smelled of Gerard. Greta rolled off of him as soon as they hit the surface of the bed. She had forgotten her earlier hurry, leaning across Frank's body to trace the many tattoos twining along his arms and chest, her wickedly pleased expression softening into something gentler.

"Beautiful," she said, leaning down to kiss him. "Mine." He smiled into her mouth, hands coming up to curl around her shoulders, lay her gently down onto the mattress. Her hips cradled his, legs wrapping around his thighs as he slid home, easy as morning. She lost herself in his body like it was music, and he sighed her name into her mouth as he let himself follow.

When Frank finally let her up - when she could bear to get up - Greta kissed him one more time, hurried to her own room and dressed quickly. She was still twisting her hair into a passable knot when she reached the front hall, where Alicia was milling around helplessly in front of the front parlor. The other woman looked relieved to see her, and Greta laid a hand on Alicia's arm as she passed by, then slipped quietly into the parlor. Four sets of eyes snapped to the door, and two of the gentlemen within - Mikey and Mr. Stump - stood. Gerard and a dark-haired man Greta assumed was Mr. Wentz were already on their feet, standing across the room by the windows.

"Greta," Gerard said, warmly. She saw him look her over, realized as she caught the twinkle in his eye that he knew what she'd been up to. She raised her eyebrows, and he cleared his throat. "Ahem. My dear, this is Peter Wentz. Mr. Wentz, my fiancee, Greta Peterson." Greta stepped closer, offered her hand, and Mr. Wentz bowed over it most correctly. He was a small man, not much taller than Frank. His smile was wide and white, and then she focused on his face.

"Pete?" she said hesitantly.

"Greta. What a surprise!" He raised a questioning eyebrow. "And here I was sure your last name was Salpeter; the last I remember, the neighborhood ragamuffins said the tax collectors came and took your family away."

She flushed, shoulders tensing defensively. "Last time I saw you, your last name was Kingston, and you were running bolts of fabric from the docks to the garmentmaker's district. You seem to have come up in the world, too." She was afraid to look at Gerard, but she did. His face, and Mikey's, radiated alarm. Mr. Stump looked rather...amused.

"Is it Miss Salpeter, then?" Mr. Stump asked smoothly, joining the awkward group by the windows. Greta nodded, lips tight. He reached out, snagged her hand and raised it to his lips. "I'm glad to make your acquaintance. Again. It was lovely to hear you play last night. I was telling Mr. Way about it." He gestured to Mikey, who blinked.

"Yes. Greta's quite the musician," Mikey added finally.

"She always was," Pete put in. "Really, Patrick, you're just trying to distract me now. There's a story here and I think I want to hear it." He crossed his arms and looked at Greta expectantly, almost encouragingly. Greta licked her lips, unsure what approach was left to take.

She was quite honestly shocked when Gerard stepped in. He actually stepped in physically, too, wrapping an arm around her waist and saying, "I told Greta she'd be safe in this house, Wentz, so don't make me a liar." His voice was cold, and Pete looked taken aback.

Greta quickly said, "Pete...they really did come for my family - my father, anyway. That little turn of events sent me into indenture for years. Gerard...got me out. But the family name isn't exactly what it was, thanks to my father. So I'm not using it. Now, maybe you can explain why you're not using yours?" It was an extremely abridged version of the truth, but Pete seemed satisfied not to press further. He scratched the back of his neck.

"Ah, but I am. Was. My father owns the textile factory, actually. He's Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz Jr, and I'm the Third.. He had some funny ideas about me learning the business from the ground up, so I did. As you knew me - as Pete Kingston. But he's getting older, and eventually he called the prodigal back into the fold, so to speak. He was as shocked as I've ever seen him when I actually managed to get myself elected to Parliament. That's probably my father-in-law's doing as much as anyone's; he's embarrassed his youngest married a factory owner's son. But anything good that I've done with my life since then is all because of Ashlee...or because of Patrick," Pete added, beaming at the ginger-haired man, who actually blushed. "I found Patrick playing in a cafe, of all places, and took him home with me that very night. He's my muse! Fabric designs are nothing compared to writing legislation. And now Patrick is writing cantatas instead of playing folk tunes for spare change." Pete beamed at the end of this speech. Greta smiled back helplessly. Pete's smiles were really just that contagious. She caught a glimpse of Mikey biting back a grin out of the corner of her eye.

Gerard looked thoughtfully from Pete to Mr. Stump, and Greta realized it was really no wonder Gerard was so taken with Pete. The earnestness was...very familiar. "Did you come to discuss Parliament?" Greta asked. It was an abrupt conversational switch, but she was still feeling a little off balance. To think that she'd come down here to rescue Gerard!

Pete looked her way. "We were. Discussing it, that is, when you came in."

"I'm sorry to have interrupted," she answered a little frostily, and Pete laughed.

"No, it's quite all right. But that's why I brought Patrick. So I can monopolize Lord Way here with the boring talk and Patrick can be his entertaining self."

Pete did rather monopolize Gerard, but Gerard didn't seem to mind, from the way he was waving his hands around and talking with barely a pause for breath. And Mr. Stump was quite entertaining. Greta had never seen Mikey so expressive with anyone, especially when they started discussing symphonic arrangements. She had a few opinions to contribute to that discussion as well, and was touched by the way they both actually listened. And Pete insisted Mr. Stump play them his new arrangement of a familiar choral work after luncheon. He entreated Greta to duet with him, and to both of their surprise Gerard picked up the tenor line halfway through. Mr. Stump switched seamlessly into the descant and continued on with a small half-smile at Pete. She was ridiculously fond of him by the time the door closed behind them. Pete's presence, and the occasional inquiring look he slanted her way, made Greta rather uncomfortable, but he was perfectly pleasant, and in truth he possessed such a measure of effusive charm that she swallowed her misgivings.

Misters Wentz and Stump were regular visitors after that, as Pete continued to come around to meet with Gerard and sometimes Brian. He often brought other MPs with him, and their muffled discussions filtered through the walls of the library or of Gerard's study into the wee hours. Mr. Stump - Patrick - mostly came to visit Greta and Mikey and avail himself of their musical talents, and the contents of the music room. He often brought small instruments from his own home if it wasn't something that was present in Mikey's collection.

Gerard was also absent from the house often. He'd finished the painting of Frank and Greta and it leaned against the wall of his studio, waiting for the frame he'd ordered. Greta slipped away from the bustle downstairs every once in a while to come sit in the quiet room, watching the dust dance in the sunbeams coming through the casements and studying the canvas.

It was gorgeous, she thought; dark and chaotic and yet strangely sweet. The figures glowed against a background of sharp, tumbled rocks, which had dotted their skin with cuts. Foam gathered around them and you could practically see the salt spray in the air. Frank had laughed, when he first saw the finished version, and said, "You'll never be able to exhibit that, Gerard." When Gerard had rather indignantly asked why, Frank replied, "Look at her face, Gerard; there's no mistaking that look. I'm sure it violates some morality clause." That had resulted in a twenty minute lecture on the suppression of artistic freedom. It was true, though, that the finished Greta-mermaid's closed lids and red lips approached an expression of release that was entirely at odds with the earlier charcoal sketches. The painted-Frank hadn't changed much from his charcoal incarnation, but the possessive stance was both gentler and more intent.

The real Frank hadn't changed much either, since the night they'd all come together for the first time. He was irreverent, generous, tireless, affectionate, maybe a little mean. One night, Greta and he sat side by side at the piano - now that Gerard had been fully absorbed into the Wentzian cabal, she went to dinner parties far less often - and she said conversationally, "You've never told me why."

Frank looked up from where he had been watching her fingers. He couldn't read music but showed a surprising skill at picking up songs by ear alone, and often ended up sitting beside her on quiet evenings like this, picking out harmonies on Mikey's guitar. "Why what?" he echoed.

"Why, when you have him, you decided you wanted...." she trailed off.

"Wanted you?" Frank finished, a small smile curving his lips.

Greta huffed a breath out at him. "Well...yes."

"It was that day you lied to Pelissier. And then later, you snapped at me. I just realized suddenly that you were..."

She cut him off with a hand over his mouth. "You liked me because I was...bad-tempered and dishonest?"

"Well, when you put it that way...yes?" Frank said, making a face.

"It's fortunate you're pretty, Frank, because otherwise I'd wonder how you ever got under any barmaids' skirts at all," said a voice in the doorway. Gerard was leaning against the door jamb, still in his dinner clothes with his loosened cravat hanging around his neck.

"Didn't my silver tongue charm you well enough?" Frank shot back.

"In a manner of speaking," Gerard drawled, and Greta chuckled a little under her breath. Gerard was less tentative around her, now that some time had passed, more willing to tease and to share the affectionate touches he'd always given Frank. He walked over to the piano, bending down to wrap his arms around her waist. "We've both been horribly neglectful, if you have to ask why we want you," he said against her ear.

"I haven't asked you yet."

"Well, you don't need to, because I'll tell you."

Greta hummed under her breath. "Mmm, go on," she said, casually enough to hide the tension she felt, the importance she felt the answer had.

"You're very lovely, of course. A little remote - but underneath you're so beautifully passionate about everything." Gerard set his teeth lightly into her earlobe, and she sighed. Frank made a noise, from next to her, and Greta glanced back and caught Gerard looking over and smiling at him. "Frank," Gerard continued, nuzzling along her jawline, "is also beautifully passionate all the time, even when he probably shouldn't be. I think like calls to like."

She turned her head a little, tasted coffee and tobacco on his lips. "What about you?"

Gerard laughed. "I think we've established that it calls to me, too. Oof!" Frank had included himself in the conversation by draping himself heavily across Gerard's back, one arm wrapping around Greta's shoulders.

"Why haven't we established that since Gerard's home, we all need to go upstairs right now?" Frank asked, dropping a kiss on Greta's cheek and turning to Gerard, lips close enough to his to share breath but not touching.

Gerard's tongue darted out to touch his bottom lip. "Excellent plan," he murmured. Greta agreed wholeheartedly.

5.

Gerard tried to ignore the date at the top of his morning paper, but the days continued to march on. Every day brought their year deadline closer. Pelissier had stopped calling at the house after a while, apparently satisfied that Gerard's engagement to "Miss Peterson" was following the appropriate course. Doubtlessly he was confident that he'd get his money either way, and if so he was in for a surprise. Gerard swore that the first thing he'd do, if he did inherit fully, would be to fire Wilson and Pelissier immediately.

Eight people were currently gathered in the dining room. Ray had called them there. Gerard sat at the head of the table between Greta and Alicia. His fingers were linked loosely with Greta's under the table. Mikey and Frank both stood by the hearth, while Ray and Brian sat further down. Brian had even coaxed Bob out of the kitchen, and he hovered silently in the doorway, waiting, as they all were, for Ray to speak.

Ray was visibly drooping from the tips of his hair to his slumped shoulders. "I'm so sorry," he said, looking at Gerard. "I've failed you. I just cannot break the will."

The room was silent, then, except for the crackling of the fire. Gerard felt Greta's fingers tighten around his. No one said anything for a moment. It was Mikey who finally cleared his throat and said, "Gerard, there's only one thing to do now. You must marry Greta." Her fingers jerked in his grasp, and he looked up at her to see her looking at Frank.

"No," she said. "I won't. We can't."

"Don't say that, Greta. Not because of me," Frank breathed.

"But it's not fair!" she answered.

Ray sighed. "Greta...there's fair, and then there's legal. Something has to win out."

"Gerard will lose everything if the title goes," said Mikey.

"No!" Gerard interjected. "No, Mikey, I won't. Not everything." Enough, though. Ray was the only person in the room that Gerard wasn't supporting. Bob and Brian would have no problem finding work, it was true, but the rest of them.... Frank would have to work on the docks, or for someone like Saporta. Alicia would have to find a position with some other family, and who would take care of Mikey? Greta would work her fingers to the bone instead of playing piano. And Mikey...he'd spent his whole life being a bad influence on Mikey, yet somehow Mikey had turned out wonderfully. What would Mikey do without his books and his music room?

God, his head hurt. Gerard rubbed his forehead. "Excuse me," he mumbled, rising from his chair and leaving them all behind in the dining room. He made it as far as the front hall before collapsing onto a step of the staircase, propping his elbows on his knees and cradling his downcast head in his hands. He smelled Greta's citrusy perfume a second before cool fingers smoothed over his brow. He looked up; Greta sat on the step next to him, tucking her legs up under her skirts. She let her hand fall from his head, but he caught it as it fell, turning it over to study the lines on her palm.

"Are you part Gypsy now, Gerard?" she asked softly.

He laughed. "Maybe."

Greta tilted her head until it rested on his shoulder. "What does it say?"

Gerard bent his neck to look at the faint creases. His hair brushed against her wrist, and he felt her shiver, but her head stayed pillowed on his shoulder. "Your life line shows several upheavals, one rather recent. From the looks of your head line, you're chronically stubborn," he started, and Greta laughed a little.

"Go ahead and tell me the rest of the bad news."

He drew a fingertip across her palm. "This is the love line. It says that you're generous with your love," he whispered. He looked up; her eyes were dark, lips slightly parted.

"Does it?" she asked casually.

Gerard nodded. "And it says not to abuse the privilege." He licked his suddenly-dry lips, leaned in a tiny bit.

"I don't think my palm says that," she replied softly.

"Which one of us is giving the palm reading, Greta?" Gerard asked. "I think it's important advice, and I want you to know that I know."

"Why's that?"

"So that you'll know how serious I am, when I ask you to please marry me."

She exhaled, a tiny _oh_ borne on a wavering breath. And Gerard leaned in to kiss her, savoring the silky texture of her mouth, the sweet touch of her tongue to his. "You know I will," she mumbled against his lips.

"And I know why it hurts," he murmured back. "But he's the first person who'd tell you to do it."

"I know that. That only makes it worse."

"That's the choice he's made. You and I have our choices too."

"I thought my future was written on my palm," Greta replied, obviously striving for a lighter tone.

Gerard leaned over to press his lips into the center of her palm, closing her fingers around the kiss. "It is," he said.

"Gerard?" someone interrupted. It was Mikey, standing a few feet away, shifting from foot to foot. "There's a room full of anxious people back there. They all want to make sure you're all right."

"Of course I am," Gerard replied. _I will be,_ he thought. He had hoped Frank would be the one to come after them. Despite his earlier words to Greta, he doubted Frank was quite as sanguine as he seemed about the situation. It really couldn't be helped, though. For not the first time, he cursed the document that had brought them all to this state. Standing, he brushed himself off and offered a hand to Greta. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and allowed him to lead her back into the dining room.

"Time to prepare for a wedding," Gerard told the room at large matter-of-factly. No one offered congratulations. Gerard wasn't sure how he'd have responded to that if someone had. There were murmurs of assent around the room, though, and he continued, "An old schoolfriend of mine is a priest now. I'll ask him to apply for a special license tomorrow. We'll want the event to occur without delay, I'd imagine?" He looked questioningly at Ray, who nodded.

"Father James?" Mikey asked. Gerard nodded. "Oh, he'll do what needs to be done, no question."

"I know," Gerard replied. He looked at Greta, who was rather pale and studying the coffee service with apparent fascination. "Greta," he said softly, and she looked over. "With a special license the banns don't need to be read. Your name won't appear anywhere but the actual document." She bit her lip; apparently that part of things hadn't even occurred to her. Then she nodded solemnly.

"It's all right. I'm ready." She dropped her eyes again. Gerard looked across the room at Frank. He wasn't smiling either. They looked at each other silently, then Gerard let his eyes slip closed, indulging himself in a deep breath and a sigh. When he opened his eyes again after a few long moments, Frank, Greta, and most of the others had all slipped from the room. Ray had stayed behind. Gerard took the opportunity to discuss a few matters with him, and as soon as they were finished he hid himself away in his studio. He had still life sketches to occupy him, and so was locked away with a sheaf of paper long into the evening. He finally emerged, well after midnight, and staggered down the hall to his room.

His bedroom was dark, and cold. And most of all, empty. Gerard stood in the middle of the room for a moment, brow wrinkled. Then he walked back out into the hall. When he got closer to Frank's door, he saw it was ajar, light flickering through the crack. He didn't knock, just pushed the panel open.

Greta blinked at him from the bed. She was sitting on top of the coverlet, knees pulled up against her chest, wearing a long white nightgown. A candle guttered in its own wax on the table by the bed. Greta's face was nearly the same shade as her gown, and Gerard asked hesitantly, "Greta? What's wrong? How long have you been here? Where...where's Frank?"

"Look in the wardrobe," she answered. Her voice didn't even sound like hers. Feeling a wave of gooseflesh creep up his arms and across his skin, Gerard pushed the wardrobe door open. It was empty. He spun to the dresser, tugging at the drawers. Empty. "He's gone," Greta said tonelessly.

"No," Gerard retorted. "No, you're wrong." His stomach suddenly felt as if he had swallowed a handful of nails.

"I don't think I am," she whispered.

Gerard shook his head. He could feel himself starting to shake. "You have to be wrong. Frank...he would never leave me. Not like...not like this." He hadn't taken his eyes off Greta; he could see her mouth twist in an unhappy curve. _Frank left me. Frank left both of us._ He couldn't even comprehend it. "There has to be some sort of explanation," he whispered. She didn't answer, and he walked wearily over to sit on the bed beside her. Frank would be back. Gerard would wait.

He wasn't sure when he finally slipped into fitful sleep, but Gerard woke early the next morning, cramped from sleeping in a strange position, half curled up with his head pillowed on Greta's leg. She had succumbed to sleep as well, slumped half-sitting against the pillows. Her candle was melted into a useless pool of wax on the table, and the drawers and wardrobe still hung open, mockingly empty.

*

In the same city block as the Snake's Head, Gabe Saporta ran another club. It was called the Church, though it was in an utterly nondescript brick building similar to Asher's boardinghouse. No one knew about the Church except for people Saporta deemed worthy. It wasn't a gambling club like the Snake's Head, just a quiet, dark, private place. The bartender - Suarez - had a soft spot for Frank since he'd discovered that Frank would speak Catalan to him whenever he bellied up to the bar for a spell. Suarez was accustomed now to fetch a bottle of rum whenever he saw Frank coming. This time, though, Frank reached out a hand when he went to replace it on the shelf. "Leave it here," he growled. Suarez raised an eyebrow at him, but did as he asked, and then left him alone to drink.

After a while, Nate came in through the staff entrance in the back and slipped behind the bar to talk low-voiced to Suarez. Frank watched muzzily as Nate set a comfortable hand on the bartender's waist and leaned in close, in full view of the rest of the club patrons, and a sardonic smile twisted his lips as he remembered asking him, the first time Nate had brought him here, how he knew this was Frank's kind of place. Nate had just laughed. _The staff always knows,_ he'd said.

 _I am staff,_ Frank had responded.

Nate had just patted him on the shoulder, replied, _Does thinking that help?_ and wandered off. Lost in concentration, he jumped when an arm settled heavily across his shoulders, and he looked up to see Nate beside him, Suarez leaning on his elbows across the bar top. "So, I hear that our Frankie here has been missing for three days," Nate said conversationally.

"He's only been here for one, but from the way he smells, I'd believe it," Suarez replied.

"I'd hit you if I could reach you," Frank slurred. They both ignored him.

"Yes, I think it's a good thing Victoria didn't know he was down here when Mikey Way came asking," Nate added. Frank couldn't hide the way his face fell at Mikey's name, and Suarez gave him a pitying look before answering Nate.

"I bet she'd let him clean up a little at the boardinghouse, though."

"Bugger you both," Frank grumbled, and they both laughed.

"You wish. I think Lord Way would object, though," Suarez added, and for a moment Frank saw red, only snapping out of it when Nate's hand closed around his wrist with bruising strength.

"That touch a nerve, Frankie? Good. We don't like lying to our friends. But you're like one of us, too, so we've always got room for you. Saporta might make you work it out in service, though," Nate told him.

"That's fine; I don't need charity," Frank spat.

"No, just a bath. And a good night's sleep. In that order." Nate hauled Frank unceremoniously off the stool. "Let's go."

Frank barely registered his surroundings as he was led unresisting out the staff entrance, through a series of open-air passages, and finally into the kitchens of the boardinghouse. Victoria and Ryland were both in there, and they looked startled at his sudden appearance. "Look what the cat dragged in," Nate said easily.

"Dragged being the appropriate term, it seems," Ryland responded dryly.

"I promised him a bath and a bed, and no questions," Nate added as Victoria started to say something.

She subsided, frowning. "Room 12 is available," she said instead.

"Room 12 it is," Nate agreed. "Come on, Frank." The stairs were a bit of a struggle; things were beginning to swim alarmingly in Frank's vision, and Nate was as small as Frank, so Nate did a fair bit of pushing, pulling and swearing to get him upstairs. Ryland brought the hip bath upstairs after a few minutes, and plunked a valise beside it.

"Look what we found down in the Church. Frank's bag."

"Mm. Convenient." Ryland left, but Nate stayed. Frank paused with his shirttails around his ribs when he noticed he wasn't alone.

"See something you like?" Frank sneered.

Nate sighed. "Make up your mind, Frank. If you're looking to drown your sorrows in our admittedly fine liquor, I won't try to stop you. If you're spoiling for a fuck, or a fight, you'll have to find someone else to oblige you."

  
Frank just bared his teeth, stripping off his clothes with faltering motions and lowering himself into the hot water. Nate politely directed his gaze elsewhere, but he didn't leave the room. "Really, Nate? You're still here?"

"Someone's got to make sure you don't drown in your bathwater." Then, after a beat, "You want to talk about it?"

"No. I really don't."

"Suit yourself." And Nate propped a shoulder against the wall, waiting in silence as Frank bathed, toweled off and dressed in clean clothes. He collapsed on the bed, and was dead to the world within seconds. When he woke up again, the sunlight through the window nearly blinded him. When his eyes adjusted, he saw Suarez slouched comfortably in a chair across the room.

Frank croaked, "Is it amusing to watch me sleep or something?"

"Or something," Suarez answered easily. He reached for the table beside his chair, which held two glasses. "Hangover remedy or hair of the dog?" Frank reached for the hangover remedy, and Suarez handed the glass over. It was a potently effective brew, and within a few minutes Frank was feeling a little less like death. "So," Suarez continued, "who's Greta?" Frank bolted upright, the glass falling from his hand and bouncing a few times on the bed. "You talk in your sleep a little," he told him. "Who is she?"

Frank dropped his forehead to his bent knees. He'd forgotten what a busybody Suarez was. "The soon-to-be Lady Way," he mumbled.

That gave Suarez pause for a moment. "Frank, I didn't know you had it in you," he said slowly. He reached over and plucked the glass off the sheets. "Why would Mikey Way be out looking for you, if Lord Way threw you out?"

"He didn't. I left on my own," Frank grumbled.

"He...oh. Ohhhhh. Well, that's interesting."

"Is there a point to this, Suarez, or are you just amusing yourself with my personal affairs?"

"Can't it be both? You know, some people tell their favorite barkeep all their troubles."

"Just go away," Frank groaned, burying his face back in his pillow. "And leave the rum."

*

The days after Frank left all blurred together in Greta's mind. The Way household had scattered across the City the first few days, searching anywhere they thought they might find Frank. But he'd well and truly gone to ground. Bob had resorted to coaxing when Greta refused to eat, but she couldn't help it. Everything tasted like ash on her tongue, no matter if it was delicate pastry or richly spiced stew. The coaxing ultimately devolved into sickroom fare, which she diligently attempted to consume under his stern, arms-folded monitoring.

Gerard didn't sleep. This Greta knew firsthand, because his pinched face and uncomprehending eyes were the last thing she saw before drifting off at night, and the first thing she saw upon waking. They'd barely been out of each other's sight for the duration of their search. After a week - after Gerard had collapsed into bed and slept for a day straight - he looked at Greta and said slowly, "I don't know what else to do."

"I don't know if there is anything else to do. Except to marry as planned," she added.

Gerard's smile was crooked, and sad. "I never intended to marry anyone at all," he told her. "Even before I met Frank. There were girls I could have had, girls my future title could have bought me. I didn't want any of them."

"Because they were girls?"

"Because they weren't special," he answered. "Blank slates, all of them."

"And the men?" she asked timidly, and Gerard let out a startled laugh.

"Your face, Greta, is as red as an apple right now. No, don't look away, it's sweet." He reached for her hand, tracing the soft web of skin between her fingers. "Yes, there were men, too. A few, but I didn't love any of them."

"Till Frank?" Her voice cracked a little, and she looked away.

"Till Frank. Till you."

Greta looked up at that. "You...you don't have to say that, you know. I've already agreed to marry you."

He looked back at her, aghast. "That's not why I said it, Greta!"

"All I mean is, the marriage of convenience exists for a reason."

Gerard stilled. "Is that what you're looking for?"

"I...no, Gerard! No. I'm sorry. I just..." she could feel her eyes welling up, and she swiped at them angrily. "Nothing's the same without him. And I've never been particularly successful at talking about how I feel."

"It's all I'm good at. Talking, that is. He always has enough confidence for both of us." They looked at one another for a moment. Greta worried the inside of her cheek with her teeth.

"I...it's not that I don't love you. Because...I do." The declaration came out hushed, but steady. "But...we need to get him back," she said, and Gerard nodded.

"I know, but how?"

"First things first," she said. "The wedding. Maybe we'll come up with something once it's off our minds."

Once they were both focused on the same goal, it was surprising how quickly the rest of the week went by. Exactly a fortnight after Ray's announcement (and Frank's disappearance) the Way family was gathered in the tiny neighborhood church where Father Dewees officiated. Gerard just called him James, and Mikey occasionally added the honorific to that, but Greta couldn't get past her ingrained awe of the cloth quite yet. Inside the nave, Gerard waited with Father Dewees, and Mikey, Alicia, Ray, Brian, Pete and Patrick sat in the pews as witnesses. Greta had peeped into the nave from her hiding place a few minutes ago, and had practically cried when she saw Pete and Patrick had arrived as promised and were seated on the bride's side of the church.

Greta was alone, now, waiting for the organist to finish the piece he was playing so she could make her entrance. Practically every male in the household, plus Patrick, had offered to walk her down the aisle, and she'd refused them all. There was only one person she'd want to give her hand to Gerard, and he wasn't exactly available.

Just as the organist appeared to be winding down, Greta heard a muffled bang and the sounds of scuffling coming from the church doorstep. Then the wooden door opened a crack and two rather unkempt-looking urchins - teenagers, a few years younger than Greta - spilled in, staring wide-eyed at Greta in her golden gown and pearls. They elbowed each other a few times, till Greta took pity on them both and said, more gently than the situation probably merited, "Can I help you, boys?"

"Are you the one getting married?" one of them asked."We have a bride-gift for you." He sounded like he'd memorized a little speech.

Greta nodded, and the other one elbowed the first and said, "Give her the box, Alex, you dummy." The first boy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a tiny wooden box.

Greta took it carefully. It was rather beautifully carved with sea animals, and she looked up at the boys and said, "Who gave you this?"

The taller of the two urchins replied, "The sailor man said we weren't to tell."

The curly-haired one hissed, "That's telling, Cash, you ninny."

"You got this from a sailor? Short, dark hair, lots of tattoos?" Her hand started to shake a little as the curly-haired one nodded slowly. "And he told you not to tell me his name?" More nods. "But you know his name." Nods again. "It's okay, boys, you did a good job. You don't have to tell me anything more." She didn't want to scare them away. Giving in to the urge, Greta sank to her knees right in the church narthex, picking at the hook holding the lid shut. Inside were two golden rings, obviously wedding rings. They were both carved with matching stylized wave designs, and the smaller of the two was set with a single pearl. She was glad she was already on her knees, or she probably would have fallen. _Frank sent us wedding rings. Oh, dear lord in heaven, Frank, why did you leave?_ Two large tears welled up and rolled unchecked down her cheeks, then she sniffled and looked back at the two boys. Just as she opened her mouth, the organist ended the prelude with a flourish and started the bridal march. "I have to go," she whispered. "I want to...can you tell him...will you stay? Father Dewees will find you some food or something after the service."

They looked at each other, then back at her. The taller one started to say something, but the curly-haired one put his hand over his mouth. "You're going to miss your entrance, miss. You'd better go." And he was right. Greta tucked the small box into her reticule and stood, picked up her skirts, and hurried to the door of the nave. When she looked back again, they were gone. Heart in her throat, she walked down the aisle to Gerard. Whatever it was that he saw in her face as she walked down the aisle, he looked as if he were about to speak up, and she shook her head dismissively, offering him a tentative smile. _Not now._

The ceremony was short. Mikey and Alicia stepped up to attend to Gerard and Greta, and Father Dewees kept things simple. When he asked for the rings, Gerard turned to Mikey, and Greta spoke quickly. "I have them, Father." Mikey and Gerard, and probably the Father and Alicia all frowned at her in confusion, and she reached into her reticule for the carved box, handing it over to Father Dewees with icy fingers. He blessed them and handed one to Gerard, whose gaze immediately shot to Greta. The pearl, the Oriental designs...he knew as surely as Greta did - as she would have even if it weren't for the tidbit of information from the two boys - who'd picked out this jewelry. When the Father gave her the ring for Gerard and she took his hand, she felt the fine tremors running through it quite clearly.

They spoke the remainder of the vows, the Father pronounced them legally wed, they signed the license, and Greta expected they'd go and accept well-wishes from the witnesses, but Gerard pulled her into a small chapel and said, "Greta! The rings?" She nodded wordlessly, and he continued, "Was he...did you...."

She laid a hand against his lips. "I will tell you everything. Please, just not here. Let's go home first?"

Greta should have known he'd never last that long. As soon as the carriage door closed behind them Gerard was pulling her over onto the bench seat beside him, lifting her hand to study the gold band and single perfect pearl. "Tell me," he said, his voice low, urgent.

"Two boys came into the church while I was waiting, and gave me the box. They said it was a bride-gift, but that they weren't to tell me who sent it. One of them let slip something about a sailor, though, so there's really no other explanation. Just look at them!" She pulled Gerard's hand over, laid it on top of hers. They both looked at their joined hands in silence for the rest of the short carriage ride.

When the party arrived back at the Way mansion, Brian made his farewells and went his own way, but the rest of the guests followed the new Lord and Lady Way into the parlor. Gerard suggested that Ray, Pete, and Patrick enjoy the amenities of the parlor for a few minutes, while they "tended quickly to some Way family business." He then bundled Greta, Mikey, and Alicia into the library and made Greta repeat her story for his brother and sister-in-law. When she finished, Mikey was frowning.

"What else can you tell me about these boys who brought the box?" he asked Greta.

"Um. They were young, but not little boys. The tiny one with the long curly hair, I think his name was Alex?"

Gerard and Mikey looked at each other and said simultaneously, "Saporta." Then Mikey added, "I went to Asher's last week, and Victoria said he wasn't there."

"Would Saporta's people lie to you?"

"I want to say they wouldn't, but I just don't know," said Mikey. "God, Gee, besides the Snake's Head, he runs dozens of smaller clubs all over the city. Are we knocking on doors again?"

"If we have to. We'll start with Victoria, though."

"You mean we, as in you and me, right, Gerard?" Greta narrowed her eyes at him.

He grimaced. "Of course; I think I've learned that lesson."

6.

Gerard didn't waste his breath arguing that he couldn't take his wife into a gambling club. They'd start at Asher's, and maybe the search, or at least Greta's part of it, would end there. He didn't think much beyond that eventuality. Greta, though - she evidently believed in being prepared. He shouldn't have been so surprised to see a small figure in boys' clothes descend the staircase that afternoon. He shook his head. "I'm starting to think you enjoy dressing up like that, Greta," he said.

"It's fortunate, because I'm sure that _you_ enjoy it," she responded tartly. He'd kept her standing in breeches and chain mail for hours the other day, distracting himself by sketching her as Saint Joan. Then he'd distracted them both by peeling her out of the chain mail, a task rather easier said than done. Afterward, he had traced the red marks it left on her skin with his lips, and she had remarked that she was starting to understand exactly why knights had squires, and then promptly turned crimson when he was startled into laughter. Flustering Greta was becoming one of his favorite pastimes. Mostly because her methods of reprisal were also rather enjoyable.

She sighed at his amused expression, adjusted her cap, and submitted him to a verbal barrage on dress reform that lasted until he finally broke down laughing, sputtering out between chuckles, "You've been spending too much time around _me_." Still grinning, he used the advantageous lack of voluminous skirts to reach down and boost her into the hackney with a hand under her derriere. Greta was still lecturing, and Gerard smiling, as they rounded the corner.

It was a short ride. No sooner had the hackney pulled to a stop a discreet distance from the Snake's Head, and Gerard disembarked to speak to the driver about his fee for waiting, than a figure emerged from the door of a brick townhouse and startled Gerard into an exclaimed, "Nate!"

Nate - for it was indeed he - turned and answered, "Lord W- that is, hello, sir." Gerard didn't miss his furtive glance behind him as he added, "Are you here to see Vic - Miss Asher?"

Gerard was about to answer in the affirmative when three things happened in quick succession. The carriage door creaked open, the door behind Nate opened again, expelling several gentlemen and a burst of music, and Greta's booted feet hit the cobbles. She marched straight to Nate, fixed him with a stern look, and said, "Where is he?"

Gerard made an inarticulate noise and grabbed for her just as Nate answered, "Where is who?"

"Where's Frank?" she repeated, and cut off his response with a, "Don't bother lying. I know he's here. That's my music." Gerard thought, _Oh. I thought I recognized that song._ Then he realized exactly what the building behind them was. Frank had told him all about the Church, when they'd lived at Asher's. Gerard had never been inside, since he'd made it a habit to avoid drinking establishments, but he recognized it now.

The look on Greta's face didn't bode well for convincing her to wait in the hackney, so he dismissed the driver with a few words and a handful of coins. When he turned back to Greta and Nate, they were staring at one another intently - Greta with ill-disguised impatience and Nate with only slightly better-disguised curiosity. Gerard put a hand on Greta's shoulder and looked over at Nate, who was still studying Greta. Gerard looked, too; with her color that high, the castoff boys' clothes were a poor disguise. He opened his mouth to say...something, he wasn't sure what...but Greta beat him to it.

"Just ask. I'll tell the truth if you do," she said.

The ghost of a smile crossed Nate's face. "I think I know the truth," he replied. "But you can tell me one thing. Your name," he said.

"Greta," she replied, and this time he did smile.

"I thought so," he said, and Gerard's heart clenched. If Frank really was here - if he was talking to his friends at Saporta's - it must mean he was missing them, too. Nate's eyes went from Greta's face, to Gerard's hand wrapped around the nape of her neck, to Gerard's own face. "Go inside," Nate said quietly. "I should keep her out here, but I won't. Just...try not to make a scene." He didn't look too hopeful of that, and Gerard knew why. Frank was many things, but anyone who knew him knew that "easy to reason with" wasn't one of them.

He stepped up to the threshold and through the door, Greta dogging his heels. They walked down a set of steps and through a set of double doors. At this hour, the Church was not full, but a goodly number of patrons were tucked around the large, dark room. He watched Greta scan the room, flicking a few curious glances at him as she noticed some of the tete-a-tetes in the shadowier corners. He and Greta spotted Frank at the exact same time; he felt her fingers tighten on his arm. Frank was tucked in the corner by the bar, a guitar slung across his lap. A dark-haired boy sat at an old-fashioned spinet beside him. They were no longer playing the simple ballad Greta had recognized, so Gerard's voice sounded loud to him as he choked out an impassioned, "Frank!"

His head snapped up, and his eyes met first Gerard's, then tracked sideways to Greta. He stood up; before Gerard could say a word, Greta was across the floor, the hollow body of the guitar protesting as her elbows thunked against it, her hand twisted in his collar. The boy at the piano flashed them a nervous look with big dark eyes. "It's all right, Brendon," Frank murmured, and the boy slipped away. Frank looked back at Greta, the hand that wasn't holding the guitar coming up to close over hers. She didn't resist as he pushed it gently away from his collar. When she spoke, her voice lacked its characteristic inflections.

"Frank, you idiot."

Gerard waited to see if Frank would reply, but he seemed to have been stricken mute, at least where they were concerned. He stepped closer, sliding a reassuring palm against the small of Greta's back, under her coat. "We've been looking for you for a fortnight," he said quietly. "We looked all over the city. We need you to come home now."

Frank's eyes shifted, looking away from Greta and meeting Gerard's. They stared at one another for a moment before Frank looked down; looked, Gerard realized, at Gerard's left hand, which he'd wrapped around Frank's wrist without realizing it. The slim gold band on his fourth finger winked dully up at them. "You don't need me," Frank whispered.

"I need you, Frank. Every minute, every day. Things have changed for me, but that hasn't - it won't." Gerard honestly couldn't count how many times he'd said something similar to Frank, didn't know how much clearer he could possibly be. If that wasn't enough.... He held his head high, meeting Frank's eyes steadily.

Frank flushed. "You say that."

"He means it," Greta added softly. "Frank - "

"You're here, too." Frank sounded disbelieving. "Nice...hat." He looked her up and down in what Gerard was sure was an intentionally offensive manner.

"Don't try to distract me. I don't know how you missed the fact that I'm stupidly in love with you - and don't think I don't wonder why," she said, sounding increasingly irritated. "And yet, you left me. No...never mind me. I'm not important. You left Gerard. And...the Frank I know thinks people are an adventure, so the way I see it, there are two possibilities. Which is it, Frank? Are you bored, or are you scared?"

Gerard let out a shocked huff of air. Greta never felt the need to hold back a cutting remark, if she thought it was deserved. He had known she was upset; he'd watched over her as she slept the last two weeks, and she hadn't slept peacefully. He hadn't realized she was so angry. Perhaps he'd wanted to ignore the fact that _he_ was angry. He still wanted to ignore his own anger. Dwelling on Frank leaving was less important than knowing Frank was returning, in Gerard's mind. He just wished he could be sure of that outcome right now.

Frank was turning a rather alarming shade of red. Gerard looked away, only to notice that the bartender was busily wiping down an already spotless expanse of varnished wood a few feet away. Gerard made eye contact, and the young man made no attempt to hide the fact that he'd been observing their interaction with Frank. He wondered what it looked like. A scruffy tattooed youth, what was, to uninformed eyes, a smooth-cheeked, diminutive, almost dainty youth, and an older man, all standing far closer than was proper. Gerard was aware that in this tableau he didn't exactly look like the most upstanding citizen, but that was the genius of Saporta's exclusive club - absolute discretion. And they'd need it, if Frank wasn't able to keep his temper in check.

He looked back at the others. Greta bore Frank's glare unwaveringly. Her voice was back to a satiny whisper when she added, "Go on. Be angry, Frank. Be angry with _me_. I'll make myself scarce, I'll move into the dowager's rooms. I'll do what I must. Just don't punish him like this." Gerard could see her words hanging in the air, painting a picture that wound into the future like a pantomime. The husband, ensuring the succession of the title. The dutiful wife, looking the other way. The acknowledged lover, cherished yet hidden from the world. He could have it, this timeless scenario of outer propriety and secret passion. And he wanted nothing to do with it.

"No," he said, just as Frank answered, "No" as well. They met each other's eyes. Gerard raised his brows at Frank, who flushed and continued.

"Gerard...Greta...I left because I thought that if I did, you'd have a chance at a normal life. A normal marriage." Greta looked like she was about to say something, but Frank made an abortive movement with the hand holding the guitar neck and she stopped. "I should have realized the two of you are far from normal. Maybe I _was_ afraid." A hint of a smile, then, and Gerard yearned to kiss him. Frank looked like he knew it, rotating his wrist where Gerard still gripped it so that he could wrap his fingers around Gerard's. "If I come back..." Gerard's fingers jerked. "If" wasn't "when". Frank's thumb smoothed slowly across the skin of Gerard's arm. "If I come back," he repeated, "I'm going to be selfish. I'm going to want both of you from now on. Together. The three of us." He stopped talking, then, staring at them challengingly.

"You had that already! What made you think you couldn't have that anymore?" Greta, incredulous. Gerard sighed and removed the hand from her lower back, wrapping it over her mouth, grunting when she retaliated with an elbow in the stomach.

"We want that too," he said softly to Frank. "Marriage doesn't change that." His palm stung suddenly. "Ouch! Greta, did you just bite me?"

Frank snorted. "Told you a long time ago that she might draw blood. Didn't you believe me?" Gerard felt his own lips twitch, and Greta's shoulders started shaking against his chest. He lifted his palm from her mouth, and a few quiet giggles escaped.

"I've always said laughter is the best medicine," a new voice proclaimed genially. The curtain covering the doorway behind the bar, just a few feet away from them, twitched aside with a flourish. Standing in the passage thus revealed was an immediately recognizable tall figure, clad in a velvet smoking jacket of a rather violent aubergine, and another, even more familiar, figure - the small, stocky silhouette of Patrick Stump.

Gerard refrained from rolling his eyes, saying resignedly, "Hello, Gabriel. And Patrick. I, ah, wasn't aware you were acquainted."

"Oh, for years now!" Saporta declared expansively. "Pete introduced me to his protege almost immediately. I'm so very fond of Patrick." He wrapped a casually possessive arm around the shoulders of the shorter man, dark eyes flicking to Frank, who'd propped his guitar against the spinet and stepped mostly in front of Greta, and back to Gerard. "I sense that my manners are amiss. Gerard...Iero...I don't believe I've met your companion before?"

Frank's shoulders were set in a tense line. Gerard saw Greta get up on her toes to whisper something into his ear. Then she stepped forward and offered a hand. "I gather, sir, that you're Mr. Saporta."

"You gather correctly," Saporta replied easily. "And you are...."

Patrick chuckled. "You'll love this one, Gabe." Gerard had known, the instant that he saw Patrick, that Greta's disguise didn't stand a chance with him. They were too close.

Gerard watched Greta's chin come up, saw the edge of her sharp white smile. "Lady Way, Mr. Saporta." Saporta didn't betray a single twitch of surprise - Gerard wondered exactly how long he and Patrick had been behind that curtain - and took Greta's proffered hand, bending down to press his lips to the knuckles. He took his time about it; Gerard shifted from foot to foot impatiently, and he was fairly sure Frank emitted a very faint growl. Finally Patrick shouldered him aside, lifting Greta's hand to his own lips, a relative model of propriety.

"This is becoming a regular soiree," Saporta commented. "Perhaps I should open up one of the private sitting rooms for these good friends, shall I, Suarez?" He appeared to be addressing the bartender; it was the same curious one from before.

"Of course. Let me know if you need refreshments," the bartender answered, and a grinning Saporta plucked a bunch of keys from behind the bar and opened a door nearly hidden by the smoke-darkened paneling. He bowed, gesturing to Greta to enter; she did so with her head high, and Gerard followed her. He heard the footsteps of Frank and Patrick behind him, then Saporta joined them and closed the door with a soft click. There were a few lamps burning low along the paneled walls, and Saporta stepped around the room to turn up the flames. Gerard watched Greta cast a quick glance around the room and roll her eyes as she spotted Frank standing in the middle of the room looking ill-at-ease. She reached over and grabbed his wrist, pulling him over to a settee, and settling down with a twitch of her hand like she was adjusting her absent skirts. Patrick sat as soon as Greta was seated, crossing his legs fastidiously and leaning back into his armchair. Gerard remained standing, and after a moment Saporta completed his circuit of the room and stood beside him.

"Tell me," Saporta said lightly, "Am I likely to receive any more refugees from the Way household any time soon? Not that I don't love seeing your shining faces, but I like to be prepared for these kinds of things."

"Not unless our chef gets tired of us," Gerard replied facetiously. "And don't take that as a challenge. Bob's the best thing that's ever happened to us, gastronomically. And he puts up with me, but I think you'd be a little too much for him, Gabriel."

"Oh, Gerard. You wound me. Now, dare I say how honored I am to be introduced to your lady wife?"

"That wasn't exactly my intention when I left the house today, and certainly the circumstances are...not ideal, but..."

Saporta laughed. "I think they're as ideal as they're going to get, my friend. You wound me yet again, if you assume they're the strangest circumstances I've ever seen." Gerard felt his eyes widen, and this made Saporta laugh even harder. "Oh, Gerard. It's always such a pleasure. You'll have to bring your brother along next time, hmm?"

"Not if I can help it," Gerard answered without thinking. Saporta just smiled, obviously not offended, and slung an arm around Gerard.

"We'll see what happens."

*

Greta looked from Frank to Patrick, and said thoughtfully, "I don't imagine the two of you have been formally introduced."

"No," Patrick replied, "But I intended to introduce myself tonight, after I heard him playing one of your songs. I just hadn't gotten the chance." His face was composed and betrayed nothing in the way of judgment or curiosity. Greta couldn't be sure how much of their conversation Patrick and Saporta had heard. Surely there was no proper way to conduct an introduction under these circumstances.

Strangely, that was what gave Greta the courage to say, "Patrick, this is Frank Iero. He's been with Gerard for...almost two years now? He takes care of our animals, too. And yes, occasionally obliges me by playing guitar with me, though not often enough." She turned to Frank, who was a little pink in the cheeks, and added, "Frank, I know I've told you about Patrick Stump many times."

Frank nodded, putting out a hand for Patrick to shake. "I'm glad to meet such a good friend of Greta's, and Gerard and Mikey's too," he said, a little stiltingly.

Patrick, on his end, returned the handclasp firmly. He and Frank exchanged a long glance that Greta couldn't quite decipher, before Patrick returned, "I'm sorry Pete didn't decide to join me tonight. He'll be sorry he had a last-minute commitment. Brendon, your accompanist tonight, is one of his newest proteges, and he'd have been delighted to meet you as well. It seems you're the only member of Gerard's household we haven't met, and one of the first we should have."

Frank smiled widely at that, and Greta was sure she'd missed something, and then her brain finally caught up. She'd realized, when Nate the groom hadn't wanted to let her inside, and after she'd gotten a good look at the club, what kind of patrons it served. Patrick was here visiting Mr. Saporta, so did that mean...God, she was a little slow sometimes. However embarrassing it was to be caught having a lovers' quarrel by a gambling kingpin and a famous composer, it was strangely reassuring to know that they didn't have to hide, well, anything. "Perhaps you'd join us for dinner soon? ...And Mr. Saporta? Perhaps Pete and Mrs. Wentz? I'm afraid we weren't very good hosts at our wedding breakfast. Plus, Frank wasn't there. He'll be there this time. _Won't you, Frank_?" she tacked on, under her breath, and felt his fingers tighten around hers reassuringly.

"Of course; I'm sure we'd all love to," Patrick replied.

Greta was dimly aware of Gerard and Saporta having their own private conversation behind her, but she carried on making conversation with Frank and Patrick. The task was made considerably easier when the subject of travel was broached and it transpired that Patrick had traveled rather extensively during his studies. He and Frank got into a conversation about Mediterranean food and customs that left her far behind, but she listened anyway, focusing half on the words and half on the soft, repetitive motion of Frank's fingertips tapping against the back of her hand. She caught Patrick, once, furtively studying their linked hands and gave him a small smile. He smiled back. When Gerard and Mr. Saporta joined them, the conversation continued along similar lines. Mr. Saporta was nothing less than a rakehell of the first order, but a relatively harmless one. When he paid her a little too much attention, Gerard glowered, and Greta was sure he was doing it on purpose, which was amusing. Gerard was giving off subtle signs of exhaustion as well, so Greta did her best to wrap up the bizarre social call.

Saporta insisted on sending them home in one of his carriages, with one of his drivers. A tall, thin man appeared out of nowhere with Frank's valise and gave Greta a curious look. She muttered somewhat despondently, "Don't I look like a boy at all?"

"Do you want to look like a boy?" Frank teased.

"Well, if I'm trying to, yes," she grumbled.

"Don't worry, it's just that everyone here gossips," Frank told her, shooting a dirty look at the coachman, who happened to be Nate. He made a face back and opened the door for the three of them. With that admonishment in mind, Greta settled herself cautiously into the carriage. It was rather ridiculously ornate; the plush seats were more comfortable than most of the furniture in the entire Way mansion. The two men followed. She wasn't sure what she expected of the coach ride home, but it wasn't the careful dialogue that transpired.

"You look tired, Gerard," said Frank tentatively.

"I am tired," Gerard responded.

"How are Mikey and Alicia?"

"Fine. Worried."

Frank hesitated a little at that, but pressed on. "Any new paintings?"

"Just some sketches. Greta mostly."

It continued in the same vein. Greta's eyes scuttled back and forth from one to the other curiously. It was the same conversation any two friends would conduct upon ending a separation of some length. She concluded that it was perhaps just Gerard and Frank's way of putting things behind them. Well, she would try to honor that.

It was already dark when they returned home, and the punctual Bob was in the middle of preparing dinner, so all three of them dispersed to wash up. Or, rather, Greta headed upstairs to the room she was now officially sharing with Gerard, and Gerard inquired where Frank was going when he made to keep walking towards his own room. The look on Frank's face was rather priceless. It took an effort, but Greta did not roll her eyes, nor did she say to Frank, "This was your express wish, remember?" When she met Gerard's eyes, however, it was apparent that he was thinking it as well, and the corner of his mouth crooked in amusement.

In many ways, as days passed it was almost as if none of it had happened at all. But Greta did revise her initial opinion on whether Gerard had entirely relinquished the opportunity for reprisal when he took it into his head to make an entire series of portraits of martyrs. His sketches of Greta as Saint Joan had already been completed, but he didn't immediately transfer them to oil. Instead, he started a new portrait.

Frank made a very effective Saint Sebastian. Gerard insisted it was integral to the verisimilitude of the piece that Frank actually be tied to a post. Greta was in the studio at the time. She laughed and asked, "Aren't arrows also integral, Gerard?"

He just raised an eyebrow at her and tightened the bonds around Frank's wrists. Greta sat on a footstool near Gerard's easel and watched raptly as he began to block in the scene. "Don't you have anything else to do?" Frank said to her, tugging experimentally at the ropes.

Gerard made an irritated noise at Frank's fidgeting, and Greta smiled sweetly back at Frank. "Not a thing."

Gerard had been painting for nearly an hour, during which Frank's fidgeting had tapered off to staring into the middle distance, when he put down his brush to roll his shoulders and refill his palette. Greta stood up and walked across the room to Frank, stepping close to murmur, "I didn't think you'd last this long tied up, Frank. You've surprised me." His head lifted, his eyes taking a long time to focus on her face. "Maybe you like it," she whispered, breath feathering over his ear. "Knowing you can't move. Knowing you'll only be untied once he's...satisfied." She ran a fingertip across one collarbone, tracing a line down his sternum, and the skin of his chest and shoulders twitched, like a horse trying to rid its hide of flies. His chest heaved and she smiled, slow and a little wicked. "Gerard," she said over her shoulder, "I know it's not exactly Saint Sebastian, but a kneeling pose would be rather...pretty."

"Greta - " Frank groaned.

Two hands closed over her upper arms from behind, and Gerard leaned in to murmur, "Greta, stop teasing Frank. I'm not done painting yet." He aimed a kiss in the direction of her cheek, caught the edge of her brow bone instead, and wandered back to his easel.

She reached up to trace one of his eyebrows, and Frank leaned his head into her palm, eyes dark as they met hers. "I think I prefer you with your hands free," she said, and leaned in to kiss him. He made an appreciative noise, opening his mouth to hers. He still tasted like cherries from dessert, and a little like tobacco.

"Greta...painting..." Gerard interrupted from across the room, and they broke apart slowly. She and Frank shared a small smile, and then she wandered away. Restless, she meandered around the studio, flipping through a few stacks of paintings, touching a plaster column, peeking out through the curtains to the darkened street. Eventually she reached the cluttered Chippendale desk that Gerard had shoved in the corner to make more room for his props and canvases. She cleared a space of various pieces of art-related detritus, boosting herself up to sit on the desktop, legs swinging. "You know," she said cheerfully, "my father built furniture like this before he built pianos. I loved going into the workshop; the wood shavings had the most amazing scent." Gerard hummed in response, not sounding annoyed at her narration, so she continued. "As a little girl, though, I thought the best part was finding all the secret compartments. They're all different, so most people don't know how. This desk probably has a few." Gerard frowned, but Greta barely noticed, busy running her hands over the scarred mahogany looking for hidden catches.

"Oh," she said distractedly when a false panel popped open under her fingers. "Found one." She reached inside carefully, thanking her nimble pianist's fingers, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. "Hmm. A recipe for marmalade. Bob might like that." She kept shuffling carefully. "Oh, my God." Greta's stomach lurched sickly, and she slowly lifted her head to look at Gerard. He was looking straight at her. Her mouth went dry. "Gerard," she started, "There's a letter here. It's marked...the last will and testament of Helena Way."

Gerard's brush and palette clattered to the floor. "A will?" he whispered. "I...they never found one. If I had known...right here, in the studio...oh, my God." He sat back down heavily onto his chair, a hand clenching in his hair. Greta stepped tentatively across the floor, extending the sealed bundle of papers, and he took them. His hand was shaking.

"Gerard! Gerard...." They both looked up. Frank was tugging at the ropes again. "Untie me, please," he rasped. Greta looked at Gerard, then went to release Frank herself. It took her a moment to work the knots loose, a moment in which neither of them looked away from Gerard for any longer than necessary. He was turning the letter over and over in his hands. As the rope dropped to the floor, Frank pulled his arms in front of himself, swinging them back and forth to wake them up and rolling his wrists slowly. The crack of the wax seal sounded very loud, and Greta's hand found Frank's as Gerard unfolded the document.

It didn't seem to take long to read; he made a few "hmm"-ing noises, scrubbed his hand over his face at one point. And he didn't say a word. Greta, and Frank beside her, barely breathed, so the sound of someone knocking on the door was startling. It was Mikey; he didn't come up to this wing very often. Greta had often wondered if the Way brothers could actually read each other's minds.

"Mikey," Gerard said. "I...here. Read this." He handed over the letter.

Mikey did; when he finished he handed it back and didn't say anything at first. Then he said evenly, "Where was it?"

"Hidden in the desk."

"Oh. It's probably not a good -"

"I know - "

"And I don't really want - "

"I know!"

"Well. It's up to you, of course." Mikey looked over at Frank and Greta, his face still as expressionless as it had been when he walked in. "Aren't you cold?" he asked Frank, seemingly just noticing his shirtless state. Frank snorted out a few giggles, like he just couldn't help it.

Greta was not so easily distracted. "Gerard!" she said insistently. "What...."

He cut her off. "Don't worry about it. Just..." he hesitated so long that she started to frown, and then he seemed to snap out of it. Looking down at the letter in his hand, he said, "No. I know what I have to do." And he walked over to the fireplace and tossed the letter in. Greta gasped. Frank took a step forward. Gerard looked steadily back at both of them. He walked back across the room, kissed Frank, then Greta, then laid a hand briefly on his brother's shoulder. "I'll be back tonight." And he walked out of the studio.

Greta immediately looked over at Mikey, and said, "What was that?"

Mikey made a small face. "I don't really know if it's my place to say."

She took a few deep breaths, shot a look at Frank, who was also frowning, and looked back at Mikey. "Well, then. Don't. But...where did he go?" She tried not to sound too worried. Gerard had seemed so...calm. It was just confusing.

"I don't know, exactly," Mikey said.

"He said he'd be back tonight," said Frank. He sounded a little breathless. Greta reached for his hand again.

Somehow, they made it through the rest of the day, and were sitting in the dining room with Mikey and Alicia, finishing dinner, when the door burst open and Gerard rushed into the room, teetering to a halt at the edge of the table. Ray was a few steps behind him. Gerard's hair was practically standing on end, and Ray was covered in ink. Since it was usually the other way around, Greta was naturally curious. Also, Gerard's eyes were practically glowing. The lump in her throat eased a little.

"Frank...Greta...everyone else...I apologize for running off without explanation today," Gerard began. "Most of you know we found my grandmother's will today. Mikey and I both read it, but I decided to burn it and I didn't share the contents. Maybe I should have. She intended her estate to be divided equally between Mikey and me from the start. Nothing went to my father, and there were no conditions."

Greta couldn't help the little hitch in her breath. She bit her lip. Gerard looked directly at her as he continued, "I don't want any of you to think that I'm unhappy with the choices I made. I honestly think things have ended up better than I had any right to expect. But it did make me think, and there are just a few more things that need to be done. Ray helped me with the first." And he pulled a folded document out of his jacket pocket. "Alicia will know what to do with this." He handed her the paper, which she unfolded and read. She looked across the table at Gerard, speechless for once. Greta was sitting next to her, and she peeked at the document. Alicia handed it to her, and she skimmed the first few lines. It was a certificate, depositing a rather significant amount of money into trust for the use of "Michael Way and family". Alicia and Ray were listed as trustees. Mikey held out his hand, and Greta passed it on. "I want to make sure you're always taken care of," Gerard told Alicia, looking over at his brother - who looked up from the paper and actually smiled.

"There's just one more thing," Gerard added, voice softening. "Frank?" Frank looked up, smiling curiously at him. Gerard reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. "This is for you." Frank accepted the small item, turning it around in his hands for a moment before lifting the lid. He let out a soft exhalation and looked up at Gerard, who was watching raptly. Setting the box gently on the tabletop, he lifted out a simple gold band. "I went to five different shops before I found one with the same carvings," Gerard added, and Greta knew exactly what it was that he'd bought.

She watched Frank slide the ring on his left hand, startling when she felt a foot nudge her shin. She looked up; Frank was looking across the table with a fond grin. "Are those tears I see in your eyes, Lady Way?" he asked.

She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. When she looked back up, they were both grinning at her, Gerard's hand resting comfortably against the back of Frank's neck. "And what if they were?" she asked, but she couldn't stop the smile from spreading across her own face. _I love you,_ she mouthed across the table, looking from one to the other. Frank's ring glinted in the candlelight as he reached across the tabletop to link their fingers. Gerard pulled his chair around so he could sit and lean his shoulder against Frank's. He looked around the table from his comfortable sprawl.

"So. What's the latest news?" Gerard said in a relaxed voice, and a chorus of voices answered at once.

"We're, ah, having a dinner party tomorrow for Pete and his wife. And Patrick. And Mr. Saporta."

"Frank...I think Bunny's going to have another litter."

"Brian thinks the reform bill has enough votes to pass. We'll find out next week."

"Mikey, I met this kid, I think you need to meet him, he plays even more instruments than you do."

"Bob, we're out of coffee!"

It was loud. It was confusing. And it sounded exactly like home.


End file.
